A Thousand Hands
by GratefulInsomniac
Summary: House is released from prison and entertains an interesting request from Cuddy. Post Season 8.
1. Waiting

_A/N-I was reading part of one of my other stories, 'Dearest Apollo,' and looking back I wish I would have stuck with the original story that I had planned. This story is what 'Apollo' was supposed to be before I softened it up and made it prettier. I regret that decision. You will notice a few of the starting elements are similar, I want to address the two of them after the show, but this is not about delving into their problems and dealing with the past. This fic will be short (promise) definitely less than eight chapters.  
_

_This isn't a song fic, but the title was inspired by two lines in a song, so I feel I should give credit. 'I Remember a Rooftop' by Alkaline Trio: "_This is the waiting room I spend my whole life in; They gave me a thousand hands so I could count my sins."

_In some eastern philosophy, the concept of one thousand arms is associated with compassion, forgiveness, and the desire to end misery and suffering. _

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of House, md. Please be aware, this is an M-Rated story and will include adult themes, language and content.**

* * *

**-Waiting-**

Prison, fourteen months after House faked his death.

As House stared at the clock on the wall, he nervously hoped Raider didn't screw him. Calmly convincing himself that he was going to get fucked no matter what he did in life, House tried to prepare for the inevitable disappointment. There was nothing in the room he could use to occupy himself: no tennis balls, no paper clips, no pencils or even a packet of sugar. There was a room, a cot, a toilet and a sink. Earlier that day, he had played with the liquid that trickled from the faucet until they threatened to turn off the water to his cell. The clock ticked past three, and then it clicked three more minutes past three without any sign of Raider or anyone else. Then the clunk and buzz of the outer door to the holding cell block echoed down the hall and through the bars that kept the occupants prisoner.

House waited, his finger rapidly tapping the back of his other hand while he listened for clues about who was approaching. One set of footfalls was from the dull thud of the thick, black, non-skid soles worn by the correctional officers. Closing his eyes, he could hear the second set of footfalls, the slightly sharper sound of dress shoes landing on the sleek linoleum. He knew every sound that building made and what it meant. There was little else to do while there. Had he been forced to serve his entire sentence, he would have gone completely crazy from the lack of stimulation.

Raider stood in front of the cell, "You are a lucky son of a bitch, you know it?"

"Geez, do I _feel_ lucky," House answered dryly.

"Let me make this clear, the terms of your parole state-"

"That wasn't our agreement. The agreement was _no_ parole."

Raider sent the guard away, watching while the hulking man disappeared. Raider turned back, "You don't get to question me. Ever. The parole is a technicality. I am your parole officer, and I hope I never see your pathetic ass again. The parole is on paper but if you blink noticeably, I'll lock you up for the rest of your miserable life. No questions, no chances."

"Your tone has changed significantly since last month, when I was a 'fucking miracle worker.'"

"The terms of our agreement are between us. Mention them to anyone, I'll book you on a parole violation. If I hear your name and I don't like what I hear: parole violation. If I see a picture of you I don't like: parole violation. If your path crosses mine in public: parole violation."

"So I won't get invited to Sunday dinner? Your wife seemed pretty fond of me."

"Shut up, House. Stay away from my family. When you leave here, you disappear."

House nodded.

"You don't want to come back here, do you?" Raider asked snidely.

"I'd rather not."

"I understand some of the nice men I've locked up before were _concerned_ about our little meetings," Raider mentioned, nodding at the bandage that stuck out from the sleeve of the slate grey prison shirt House wore.

"You did a great job of setting me up as a rat."

"Compliance insurance. You can't complain too much, I put you in protective custody."

"After your wife was home. Three weeks after you took out your…compliance insurance. You sent me to hang out with the general population while I was saving your wife's life. Gratitude is a tricky concept for you, isn't it?"

"Well, you're going free now, aren't you?" Raider smiled as he put his hands in the pockets of his pressed and tailored pants. "Seems like I understand gratitude well enough."

"I'll feel a little more confident when I can no longer see any part of this building."

"Do I need a CO to walk you out? You aren't stupid enough to try anything when you're this close to getting out of here, are you?"

"Nope."

Raider signaled for the guard to open the automated door. House stood and watched it glide open in front of his eyes. They walked to the front, Raider monitoring his prisoner from two steps away. Standing impatiently while House collected his personal belongings, Raider looked around, checking his watch and his phone to waste time.

The somber attendant gave House his things. Standing in the cold, open room, House put the institutional cane he was given to use in prison in the window for the attendant. There was no privacy in prison, even on the way out. With two CO's, the attendant and Raider standing in the room, House removed his prison clothes and tossed them in the bin provided there. His own clothes felt unimaginably good, the denim in his jeans was perfectly rough and thick, and his tee shirt still smelled like the sun. When he pulled his riding boots onto his feet, he thought he would actually die if something prevented his freedom.

And there it was, the outer door opened, the attendant forced a smile and said, sarcastically, "Best wishes," while handing House's personal cane to him.

The newly freed man was almost disoriented as the afternoon sun greeted him on the outside; he literally squinted at the brightness. Raider reminded, "You disappear."

"No hug?"

"Get out of here," Raider ordered, "Thank you for saving her life. But you're free, and my debt is paid."

House turned away, facing the outer gates and beginning the slow stroll to freedom. He wondered if he would have run, if he was able, or if he would have enjoyed each step that took him farther away from that pit he felt he barely survived.

After walking a good distance away, he found a convenience store, bought one of the best cups of coffee he'd ever tasted and limped into the public restroom. Carefully removing his riding boots, he pulled out the box cutter he'd stolen from one of the clerks who was stocking shelves and cut along the inside bottom of his shoe. Carefully lifting up the insole, he looked into the wells carved in the sole and found his meticulously stashed supply of pills. He felt the weight of a Vicodin in his hand, bounced it up and down for a moment and considered tossing it into his mouth, but tightened his fist around it.

He had dreams over the last few months, as he imagined his first night out of jail, filled with drugs, drink and a hooker or two, followed by a night of sleep when he wasn't forced to get up at 7:20 am to begin another day he wished he didn't have to live. Unfortunately he didn't have the resources. He couldn't afford a motel room _and_ a hooker _and_ a drink. It wasn't that he didn't have money, but he had to get to one of the places where the money was.

The police confiscated his fake ID and credit cards when they arrested him, so all that remained was forty-seven dollars and a condom. One of the attendants at the prison put staples through the condom. House hated that place and every fucking person in it.

He sold the pills at a bar in town, the money was quick and the buyer paid for the convenience as well as the high. With just enough money left over to buy some dinner and a double shot of cheap whiskey, he purchased a ticket and boarded the train.

He finally arrived at his mother's home early the following morning. Of course it seemed a better idea to avoid her, he wasn't looking forward to the discussions they were about to have, but there were things he needed at her home. The place looked sort of inviting, and suddenly the thought of a day or two with decent meals and comfortable lodgings while he reestablished himself seemed like a good idea.

No one answered the door, so he looked for an outdoor light and found the spot where his mother had always hidden spare keys. People didn't change. He opened the door and the place smelled exactly like her. She still had a few pictures of him on the wall, next to newer pictures of herself and her new husband and his family. It was too neat, too tidy and too fake, but it reminded him of the proper and neat homes she had kept no matter where they lived throughout his childhood. He went immediately to the fridge for food, and he wondered if she was away for a few days, since there were few things there to eat.

Settling on a tall glass of scotch and a microwave dinner, he began to look for his things. He found the photo album where there were bills tucked in the plastic sleeves where the pictures were supposed to be kept. While he ate and drank, he removed the bills and stacked them. He found his duffle bag, one given to him by John House, and found his mother had kept that too. He had sent his mother these things after he got out of prison the first time, escape provisions. There were only two full sets of clothes and one pair of sneakers, but the ill-soled riding boots certainly weren't helping his leg.

Once his things were gathered, he ran the hottest bath that he could and sunk into the water to soak. He heard the front door open and close and he heard someone walking around. He shouted from the tub with mock cheer, "Mom, I'm home."

Only a moment later, the steps progressed down the hall and the door flung open. Thomas Bell shook his head as he walked in, leaning against the counter and facing the closet door. "It's you," he said in his thickly accented way. "You're late."

"I didn't realize I was expected."

"Where's your darling little wife?"

"Ex-wife."

"Even she didn't want you?"

House stared ahead without an answer.

"I'm sure your mother wasn't all that surprised that you didn't show. When could she ever expect anything from you, you ungrateful sociopath?"

House continued to soak and answered, his tone sarcastically child-like, "You know how Mom hates when you say stuff like that."

"Well, what's she gonna do now?" Bell looked the same, perhaps a bit more tired, it hadn't been that long since Blythe and Bell paid him a visit. "You couldn't even show up to say goodbye to her. It's like y'existed to break her heart."

Staring ahead, the realization hit House, "What happened?"

"You didn't hear? Or you chose to ignore?"

"Didn't hear. What happened?"

"Stroke. We took her to the hospital…she was stabilized and then another hit. Worse. That was it."

"When?"

"Almost a month now. You're lucky you came when you did, I'm selling this place. Can't stand being here without her."

"I just got out."

"In prison again or rehabilitation for all of those pills you swallow?"

"Prison."

"It's probably merciful. She deserved so much better than you. Seeing you probably would have hurt her again."

House drained the water and stood, grabbing a towel. "You don't know anything about my family."

"I knew your mother."

"Parts of her."

"She made excuses for you for as long as she could still speak coherently. When I asked her about getting in touch with you before her second stroke hit, even then she excused your pathetic behavior. She has this _world renowned diagnostician _for a son, and what good did it do her when she was sick?"

"I'm not sure how I could have helped. Apparently she didn't need a diagnostician."

"I think it's best you go. I'm not gonna let you bad mouth and disregard your mother in her own home. You have tonight here. I'm only giving you that because it's what she would have wanted. I want you gone in the morning," Bell said as he walked out of the room.

Later, Bell slapped several letters on the dining room table, all addressed to House. Some were collection attempts for bills that were long forgotten, but four were pleas for help with cases from people who tracked down House's next of kin. When people were really desperate for a cure they always seemed able to overlook his social skills and criminal history.

Skimming over most of the letters and tossing them to the side, there was one that caught his eye. Most requests over the years pleaded for assistance because the sick person was young or had children or was a sainted person who needed to be saved for the benefit of the world, and the letters were no different, but the interesting request contained five hundred dollars in cash and a small sheet of instructions that could have fit on a note card.

There were no symptoms, no heartfelt plea for help or argument of the patient's worthiness. There was the mention of an unsolved case, an address and money. The five hundred dollars was offered as an incentive to come and to help with travel expenses, but a much greater sum of money was promised if he showed up and even more was offered if he found a cure. A lot of the money he had once had neatly stashed away was gone after fleeing the country, faking his death and running off with Wilson. The last few years were full of big expenses, and, upon his death, his documented money was passed on to his survivors. He never bothered to attempt to reclaim any of it. There was little point, initially he thought he'd be spending years in prison because he was charged with every single crime they could pin on him.

Apart from the money stashed with his mother, there was another significant sum hidden in an office in Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, money hidden when he left proof of his existence for his former team. He hoped it was still there. Both stashes of money wouldn't sustain him forever, so the thought of earning a year's salary in a few weeks was tempting.

Walking through the place his mother had called home, reality began to settle over him. The painful loss of his mother was something he couldn't deal with until he had certain practical matters arranged. He wasn't sure how much longer he could stay in that building. Bell offered him a drink, rambling on as he poured about the ways that House had failed his mother. House took the glass from Bell's hand, quickly swallowed it down and stated calmly, "Gotta go. I have a case."

Minutes later, with his dad's duffle bag and very few belongings, House left and headed north. The case was in New York State, close enough to PPTH to make a side trip there at some point. He bought a motorcycle, something cheap and used but in good shape. After strapping his bag firmly to the seat, he was on his way.

After far too many months spent sleeping on a prison cot, his leg was burning before he even began the long ride, and NSAIDS barely touched the pain. Frequent breaks seemed a small price to pay for the chance to ride a bike again. Of course he wanted to be anywhere but in prison. Life seemed to be increasingly relative, and in the light of his last year, his expectations were low.

As he rode, the realization that his mother was dead made frequent and stubborn attempts to enter his thoughts, but each time he felt the stab of hurt, he shoved the thoughts roughly from his mind. He needed something to fill the space in his head that allowed for those feelings. He needed the case. He wasn't even sure why he was still clean after the last few months, so he just stubbornly continued, but he had proven he didn't need _anyone _to stay clean.

Then he felt on the edge of a place where his stubbornness began to waver. He started to obsess on the case. He wondered why the requestor did not try to argue for the life of the sick person and considered the possibility that it was someone hated. Perhaps it was a greedy CEO, a disgraced politician or a known criminal. He thought about the typed note and the address, and he fantasized about the condition of the patient. He started to imagine tests and outcomes, rare conditions and treatments, his medical mind was suddenly very aroused as diagnostic synapses that seemed dormant woke up and began to fire. The postmark was from New York State, just like the address. The possibility crossed his mind, for a moment, that perhaps the case was something boring, a case already solved in a way the family did not like. Like thoughts of his mother, he pushed those aside, he needed this to be a real case.

He rode until the pain in his leg and the tiredness of his mind overwhelmed his desire to continue moving forward. Collapsing onto the bed of a roadside motel with his body fully dressed and the bed completely made, he felt fortunate to make it to a bed at all. There were almost ten hours of nearly comatose sleep from the moment he closed his eyes until the maid rapped loudly on the door to clean the room.

A few more hours of riding brought him to the address in the envelope. The home, set back a respectable distance from the road, was nice enough for him to believe that the owner could probably come up with the money they'd promised to pay him, but it was hardly a mansion. He climbed off his bike, hanging the helmet on the handlebar. With a cautious but excited approach to the front door, he caught a glimpse of eyes peering curiously out of the open second floor window. A polite and courteous woman answered the door and listened while he introduced himself, a realization dawning on her after a moment when she said, "This way, sir."

The anticipation was more noticeable than he ever thought it had been without knowing any specifics. This case, the prospect of a challenge, was a very real drug, a stimulant, and he forgot for a moment that his shoulder was stiff, his leg was throbbing, he was thirsty and he really had to pee. He was too busy following this young woman down the hall to a room near the back of the house.

The room was quiet, but he could hear the slight tap of an IV infusion pump and the sounds of pages turning while someone read a book. A woman, likely his patient, was asleep on a recliner near the window.

House glanced at the patient, but he didn't really want or need to look at the patient, not yet, he needed to look at the file so he could tell if this case was worth his building enthusiasm. From behind him he heard, "Greg, thank you for coming," in a voice that was condescending, subtly derisive, and familiar.

He turned slowly and just seconds before his eyes met the face of his greeter, he placed the voice with its owner. "Arlene," House nodded, "great to see you. Now I'm leaving."

The woman moved closer to the door almost immediately, offering, "You don't want the money?"

"I don't want to see her. No money is worth that."

"Hear me out."

"Is she here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your daughter. Is she in the building?" he asked, shouting condescendingly and speaking slowly as if Arlene was intolerably dull and lacked basic comprehension skills.

She looked confused for a moment, like he should have known the answer, and nodded with only the slightest movement of her head while her eyes darted past him.

When reality dawned on him, he turned back to the recliner. He took two very unsteady steps closer to the sleeping figure who was beginning to stir. He could have spent all day in that room and never recognized her.


	2. Arrangements

_A/N-Thanks to all who favorited and followed, and to all of you who left comments: BabalooBlue, IHeartHouseCuddy, chebelle, Suzieqlondon, jaybe61, LapizSilkwood, JLCH, bere, ikissedtheLaurie, OldSFfan, lenasti16, ammeboss, CacauHousemaniaca, MrsBock, precioussoulandsweetcheeksiin1, MonFogel, Melanie1121, vicpei1, Abby, CaptainK8, freeasabird14, Ann, HuddyGirl, byte size, Alex, Boo's House, LizLo, LoveMyHouse, KiwiClare, aussiefan12, Jane Q. Doe, Little Greg and grouchysnarky. (Thanks also to all of those who still gave the thumbs up to Apollo). I'm trying to put out at least 2 updates a week on this story. _

_Also, I did not become a doctor since the last time I wrote something medical-related, so I'll apologize in advance for anything I may have messed up. This is based on some research and a little bit of knowledge, but I'm still not an expert in anything in the field of medicine. I tried to do enough research to make it realistic._

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**-Arrangements-**

House's mind burned from the heat of stunned confusion while he watched the woman in the recliner begin to wake up. When Arlene saw him turn back to look for answers, his eyes were wide, his face was pale, but his ears and neck were flushed red. His hand clenched onto the handle of his cane with a death grip, and he asked the only question that he could, "Where's the file?"

"Oh my god," Cuddy's shaky voice came through, muted, with less force behind it than normal, but with instantaneous rage. "You did this?" she asked her mother, pointing at House. "I said no. I said _no_. Why? Why is he here?"

House turned back to the woman he had once known almost everything about and stared for a few moments. Cuddy was jaundiced and impossibly thin, with shorter curls jutting out from under a bandana that was folded and tied over her head. Her grey stare seemed to be the most familiar part of her, and even it was offset by the yellowing of the whites of her eyes.

When her angry gaze met his, he looked away for a moment, trying to disguise the sense of numbness and outright shock at her deteriorated condition. He had a few seconds to recoup, to summon his strength, and then he looked back at her, "What in the hell happened to you?"

Cuddy held one hand out, fingers spread wide, a few inches in front of her face, an attempt to prevent him from looking at her that was largely in vain. She angrily asked her mother, "What part of 'do not call House' was in any way unclear to you? How was that open to _any_ other interpretation?"

"It doesn't hurt to have him look," Arlene answered, walking toward her daughter, "he's already here. It's like you _want_ to die."

Arlene's words rang in his ears as he looked between the women silently, still too disoriented for a bigger reaction. He barely cleared his throat and asked, "File?"

Cuddy looked past Arlene right at House, "This is of absolutely no interest to you, believe me. I have a diagnosis. There is no puzzle, no mystery, no hidden cure for a little known disease. There is me and cancer, and two-to-four more months of misery until I die. My case is your textbook definition of boring. Curiosity satisfied?"

His eyes locked on hers, more determined instead of less, "File," he ordered as he held out his hand, palm facing upward, still focusing on the only response that made sense to him.

"Tell him," Arlene added in, ignoring House and arguing with her daughter, "tell him that you refused treatment, you refused chemo, and you won't even let them take it out."

"Somebody give me the fucking file!" he yelled so loudly that both women jerked their heads to face him, a bit startled.

"I'll get all of the paperwork," Arlene offered before she left the room.

When Arlene left, they were there, just the two of them, enshrouded in silence and the cold chill of their complicated past. It was one of the most awkward and unforeseen meetings in either of their lives.

"She shouldn't have called you," Cuddy began, "and you shouldn't have come."

"Oh, believe me," he countered with a defensively aggressive scoff, "if I would have known whose case it was, I wouldn't be here. I didn't know it was you."

"It's good that we've established that. Since I don't want to see you…and you don't want to see me…leave." Her voice quivered a bit, her eyes were sad and weary in a way that sucked the power out of her stare. She was a shell of the woman she had been.

He squinted tightly at her, considering a hurtful response or an almost comically chipper farewell, but as much as he tried to summon the most derisive and cold attributes of his personality, they were failing him when he needed them. He opened his mouth to push back, to make her feel some of the loneliness and pain that he had felt over the last couple of years, to help her taste the bitter thing that his life had become. Like her, he seemed to lack the strength and will to lash out strongly, like he was going through the motions of hating her.

He stepped closer, tilting his head, "You think it's cancer?"

"I _know_ it's cancer," she nodded, putting out a hand to suggest that he cease his approach.

Ignoring her suggestion, he walked closer, "You refused chemo? Surgery? You aren't Wilsoning out of treatment, are you?"

"I've done all of that. I'm not doing it anymore. This has been my world for a while."

He used his cane to pull a hassock away from the chair where Arlene had been reading and dragged it over to Cuddy's recliner. Sitting cautiously, stretching and rubbing his leg, he mentioned, softly, "If your body isn't responding to treatment, maybe it isn't cancer."

"It's cancer, House," she answered, her voice still making attempts at harshness but her body language the slightest bit less protective. "A year ago I was diagnosed with stage II endometrial cancer. With a history of infertility and my age, no successful pregnancies…I'll just say there were enough risk factors…I wasn't shocked."

"Stage II? What's the big deal?"

"Thanks for your compassion and understanding."

"I'm just saying…treatable. If it isn't responding, then maybe there's something else going on. So, how did they treat?"

"Very aggressively. Berger at Mass General. I rented an apartment in Boston for Mom, Rachel and I so I could be treated. I told Berger I wasn't going to die. She agreed. We went all out, radical surgery, I told her to cut out anything that even had thoughts of becoming cancerous. I wanted the cancer out. I wanted chemo, I tried to talk her into IP chemo, which she said wasn't necessary, but I fought. I fought with everything that I had. After surgery and six _months_ of chemo, everything looked good. Everyone told me, 'Chemo isn't as bad as what it used to be, some people don't even have a problem with it.' I had a problem with it. I was sick…so sick, after each treatment. My daughter doesn't know how to multiply yet, but she knows how to take care of me during the first few days after a treatment. She knows what a port is. She knows how to read the labels on my bottles enough to find whatever I need. I told myself it was worth it. I told myself and Mom and every single person at the hospital who would listen that it was worth it. I was investing six months of my life to own the next…what…twenty or thirty years? I would have been happy with ten more years. I was paying my dues so I could see Rachel grow up…so I could be there for her. So she didn't have to be abandoned…_again_. So my mom didn't have to outlive her daughter. After a life full of healthy habits and exercise, if anyone was going to survive, it was going to be me," Cuddy choked out, trying to hide the sadness in her voice and blink away the tears in her eyes.

"I told you to eat more hamburgers," House teased in a strangely gentle way that sounded soothing in spite of the words that were spoken.

She breathed a subtle laugh through her nose, "You did. Look at you. You're going to outlive Wilson and I. Of the three of us, who would have thought that you'd be the last one standing. You're the oldest, been closer to death more times than Wilson and I put together. You never gave a shit about what you did to your body. More Vicodin has been through you than all of the other Plainsboro employees combined."

"I tried to do my part. What am I missing? You said treatment went well. But you're here and you're really yellow and really frail. So…the cancer is back? Liver?"

"Pancreatic," she laughed sadly, "and given the size of the mass, and how quickly it appeared, I have two-to-four months left. That's it. Not two-to-four good months…months like this…like I am now, and then worse. I've had three months of this already. I'm done."

She heard him breathe when she said 'pancreatic,' but he was insistent, "Where's the old bitch with the file?"

"House," Cuddy said firmly, "let it go. Go have fun for Wilson and me. You and I have better things to do than waste each other's time and stir up the past. Unless you're still here because you want one more chance to try to kill me, because if that's it, by all means, give it your best shot. I'll hold still."

"Fuck that, Cuddy," he said, their fragile accord crumbling to pieces almost instantly around them, "You know I didn't want to kill you."

"Do I? Do I really _know_ that? Because it seems to me-"

"You just don't want my help," he interrupted. "You want to keep on hating me and if I help you it makes it harder. So you're going to try to piss me off."

"You're right, how _completely_ irrational of me to be angry after you tried to kill me."

"I wasn't trying to kill you. If you want to be angry at anyone, be angry at the person who is _actually _trying to kill you…and that is _you_."

"You think that because you sit and listen to me for a few minutes and you want to find a cure that I should overlook what you did?" she asked directly.

"You think that I should overlook what _you_ did because of what I did?"

"Of course…I got what was coming to me, right?" she tried to yell, sitting forward.

The woman who greeted House at the door came in, turning on brighter lights in the room, "Is everything OK, Dr. Cuddy?"

"Yea," Cuddy answered, "I'm fine, Lily. My _friend _here is just leaving."

"I'm not actually leaving," House said to the young woman.

Lily, a nurse, walked over to check the IV, turning the controls away from her patient while she worked. "I'll be back in a little while."

Cuddy faced away from him after the nurse left, her expression rigid and stoic, "Goodbye, House."

He got up slowly, "You're such a coward."

"Excuse me?" she fired back, standing to confront him, "_I'm_ a coward?"

His mouth gaped again, as he saw more of her, as he saw how frail she was, and the way her clavicle jutted out so far that her old self would have looked sort of chubby standing next to her. "Jesus, Cuddy," he said, shaking his head.

He tried to regain control, but it was too late, she saw his weakness, what was worse was, he felt his weakness. Her own expression softened as she saw the empathy in his eyes in spite of all that had happened between them, and she knew how bad things were. "Please don't look at me like that," she asked, her lip shaking.

"Like what?" he questioned, trying to find his nonchalance.

"Like I'm already dead."

He swallowed, rubbing a hand roughly along his stubbled jaw and wishing that he could feel the abrasiveness, that he could feel anything besides his own pained astonishment. "I'm not…," he started, taking the slightest step closer and trying to convince her, "let me look at your file. We don't even have to get along, we probably shouldn't even speak. But let me look. I want to know that you can't do anything, those other doctors are idiots. And I can't take the pressure of living for all of us unless I know that you have to die," he tried to joke. She took a few tired steps toward a computer on a table, but he limped past her quickly and said, "I can get it. You've out-crippled me."

"I'm fine," she argued immediately, but started back to the chair, leaving him to get the laptop.

When they were seated, she showed him the scans she received via email. She watched for his reaction while his eyes followed the image, the slightest tense worry appearing in his brow until the expression disappeared from his face again. He finally looked back at her and said simply, "Can't miss that."

"It's huge," she commented.

"Huge is relative."

"For a pancreatic tumor…"

"Yea," he admitted, "it's…pretty fucking big."

Arlene came in with the file and House pulled it from her, "I would have removed her tumor myself if I would have known how long it was going to take to get the file."

"What do you think?" Arlene asked impatiently when she saw they were looking at the scans.

House opened the file and began looking through what was there. "I'm not an oncologist but…," he began before he started tossing papers to the side in search of something. "Where's the newer stuff, recent blood work? The newest lab in here is from months ago. Where are the biopsy results?"

"She's refusing all treatment," Arlene accused.

"That's not treatment, that's testing. Where is it?"

Arlene pointed at Cuddy, "Ask her."

"I'm done," Cuddy answered calmly. "I'm done letting them unzip my body and dig around in it. I'm definitely done with the chemo and the sickness. There's nothing to fight here, this is a battle that I will not win. So right now, the only thing I can do is extend the suffering, not just for me, but for Rachel and Mom too."

"Oh, please," Arlene countered, before turning to House, "You see? You see how she is? This is not my daughter."

House watched Arlene out of the corner of his eye before looking back at Cuddy, "It's not uncommon for patients who have been sick to suffer from depression."

"Cancer patients," Cuddy interjected, "but it doesn't change the fact that I'm not going to beat this. This scan shows more than a tumor. My liver and surrounding lymph nodes are clearly inflamed. It has probably spread already."

He watched Cuddy while her nails scratched at her skin, some places along her neck and the exposed parts of her arms had angry, red scratch marks. Cuddy, somewhat hesitantly, left the two alone while she went to the bathroom, dragging her IV pole with her.

"Why does she scratch like that?" Arlene asked, "is that a sign of some other disease? Or maybe the depression, is that a…symptom? She was never like this the first time she fought cancer."

"It's the bilirubin. The mass blocks the bile duct and the bilirubin builds up in her blood stream. It's why she's yellow and why she itches. Her pancreas and liver are contributing to the itching, the tiredness, the lack of appetite and the depression."

"So what do you think? Is it cancer?"

"There are a couple of possibilities…but it _looks_ like cancer. Without testing or a chance to treat, I can't confirm anything. When's the last time she ate? Is the nausea that bad?" House asked, his concern and curiosity overriding the typical irritation he usually exhibited when dealing with the old woman.

"I haven't seen her eat anything in weeks. Some broth here and there, liquids and they have her on the IV, but she hasn't eaten an actual meal."

"And the nausea, does she get sick as soon as she eats? The last time you remember her eating."

"Not really. Her nausea was mild compared to when she was on chemo. She just doesn't like to eat."

"Eating would help. It's hard to tell how much the weight loss and fatigue are the result of her condition and how much they're the result of not eating. So when did the hunger strike begin?"

"I don't know. She lost a lot of weight during her chemo because she was so sick. She started doing better after the chemo ended, but she didn't have a chance to get completely back to normal before she starting feeling bad again. When it started, when the pain in her back began and the jaundice set in with the nausea, she gave up…even before the scans showed her something was there."

"Did you try to talk her into a biopsy? They could put in a stent to relieve her symptoms, then maybe she could eat, she would feel better. If she felt better, maybe she would start using her brain again."

"You think she could survive this?" Arlene asked without masking her maternal worry in the least.

"There's a chance, but not if she won't let me do anything. There is no chance if she just wants to sit there and wait for death."

"She isn't herself. If she could act like herself, she would fight it. She would try."

House sat back in the chair, leaning his head against his hand, the knuckles of his fist pressed against his tightly sealed lips. Arlene stood in front of him, arms folded, and said, "The truth is…that my daughter wants to die. I need you to convince her to fight. Figure out why she isn't herself."

"And if I can't convince her?"

"Find a way to run the tests or do the treatment _without_ convincing her," Arlene answered as if the solution was the most simple thing they could consider.

"I think shoving needles into people against their will is considered assault in some circles."

"So?"

"So? You're asking me to assault your daughter?"

"You've done it before."

House huffed, "No, I didn't. I assaulted her property. Not her."

"Same thing."

"It's really not."

"We're never going to reach an agreement on the past. So let's agree that I wouldn't consider _this_ assault. I'd consider this…lifesaving, rescuing her from her own stupidity."

"The itching and depression could come from morphine too," he said as a thought distracted him, "She requested palliative care, so they have her on morphine, right? I saw something in the chart."

"Should she cut back on the morphine?"

"No," he answered while he was clearly working a problem through in his head as he rolled his cane between his palms, "the morphine could be helpful."

"Do whatever you have to do. I'm not going to lose my daughter."

"I don't want to go back to jail. Not for anyone…definitely not for her."

"I'll take your side. Our word against hers."

Their conversation stopped when Cuddy return to the room. Arlene left and they were there alone again. "You'd feel better if you tried eating," he suggested. Pointing at her IV, he asked, "Are you hitting the button a lot?"

"I haven't taken much of it yet, I hate the way it makes me feel."

He looked at her, studying her again with the brighter lights on in the room. "You look different."

"I'm dying, House. Sorry if that's ruining my figure for you."

"It isn't just that."

"Oh good, so now you're gonna treat me to jokes about the new color of my skin, I can't wait."

"It isn't that either. And, fine, part of it is definitely how thin you are. Emaciated is not a robust look on you."

"I'm not emaciated."

"You are. We could probably put you in the corner of a classroom and use you for the skeleton."

"Your warmth overwhelms me."

"You don't need warmth. You need truth. I think you're depressed…understandable…if you ate, you would feel a little better, you can build your strength so your body can fight. It might even help with the depression a little. Then we can get a biopsy and some blood work so we know what is really going on."

"No. You want to know what you can do?"

He stared at her suspiciously, waiting, and then shook his head when he guessed about the nature of her request, "Don't ask me to kill you."

"You aren't against euthanasia."

"Medically, professionally, no I'm not. I'm against it for you right now."

"You want me to suffer?"

Looking up, his eyes as pained as the night she ended their relationship, he stated firmly, "I can't end your life. I'm asking you… to not ask me."

Her response was lost and confused, but she nodded, "I won't ask you."

A pall of relief crossed over him, "Good. Besides, I won't do it for anyone who refuses some simple blood work and a biopsy. Before you've decided you're going to die…you should make sure of what you're dealing with."

"It's obvious."

"Assumptions are dangerous. Believe me, dying prematurely is a huge pain in the ass."

"There is something else you can do," Cuddy began.

"What?"

She looked at her IV pump, nodding her head toward it, "They know I'm watching…when they punch in the security code. Mom warned my nurse. I want the code. Will you get it for me?"

"That sounds _very_ similar to you asking me to kill you. You want me to pretend like you aren't going to use that information so you can overdose on morphine?"

"I'm just asking for numbers. What I choose to do with those numbers is entirely up to me. You would be blameless."

"I could go back to prison. Forever."

"You won't. I want to spend the rest of today and tonight with Rachel so I can enjoy a last day with my child. She doesn't deserve to watch this again. She's been through so much, and watching me slowly die will destroy her. This is merciful for her too. Tomorrow morning, come back. I'll tell Lily I'm having more pain, ask her to increase the allowable dosage of morphine. When she punches in the code to change the settings, you can get the numbers."

"I just got out of jail Wednesday and I'm guessing this is a pretty big violation of my somewhat informal parole. This doesn't seem a bit extreme to you? You won't let me do a biopsy and run some blood work first?"

"I'm not asking you to kill me. I'm asking for the code. After you give me the code, I'll send Mom and Rachel away for a few days so Rach doesn't see any of this. Lily will see you leave and not come back. The following day, long after you're gone…so you can't be implicated at all…I'll do it. There will be a witness that you were not here. Rachel won't get hurt, Mom won't get hurt, and you won't be implicated."

"You think my resistance is about me being implicated?"

"I can understand not wanting to go back to jail. Please, all I want is the code," she pleaded.

He nodded, stood up and said, "I'll do it. I'll be back tomorrow. I should go get fucked and fucked-up one more time…just in case this goes wrong and I never see the sun again."

"I won't let that happen, House. You have my word, I will _not_ let this come back on you. I'll wait two or three days after you go if that would make you feel better."

"If it makes me _feel_ better?"

"Yea, if it will help you feel less concerned about going back to prison."

He went to the door, pausing to turn around, "You can wait two hours or two weeks after I leave, and no amount of time is going to make it all better."

"House," she sighed, "This is my decision. I know when it's time to let go."

Right before he left the room, he said with purposeful clarity, "I remember, I've had a first hand demonstration of how good you are at letting go."

Before the words even settled fully in her mind, he was gone.


	3. The Field

_A/N-Thanks so much to everyone who is reading and to all who reviewed the last chapter: iridescentZEN, lenasti16, IHeartHouseCuddy, OldSFfan, BabalooBlue, LizLo, KiwiClare, linda12344, JLCH, ammeboss, Libratine, jaybe61, freeasabird14, housebound, LoveMyHouse, LittleGreg, LapizSilkwood, grouchysnarky, precioussoulandsweetcheeksin1, bere, BJAllen815, CacauHousemaniaca, Huddy4Ever, jkarr, RochelleRene, Suzieqlondon, chebelle, Mrs. Bock, CaptainK8, Jane Q. Doe, byte size, Abby, Boo's House, HuddyGirl, Alex and the Guests._

_Three updates in a week's time…it's been awhile since I've gotten that much posted. I'll try to get something up during the weekend, but I can't promise anything because things will be really busy over the next few days._

* * *

**-The Field-**

As House left Cuddy's, Arlene tried to stop him. He jerked his arm away from her hand and growled, "It's under control. I'll be back tomorrow."

He was out the door and on his bike, his helmet on his head but not secured, and he was leaving that place with remarkable speed for a man with a cane. Going only far enough to no longer be able to see the home, he stopped his bike on the shoulder of the road. Making his way into the brush, he braced his arm against a tall tree and leaned against it while his head reeled. He stopped there to pee because he didn't even feel like asking to use the bathroom; he didn't want to do anything that required him to spend another moment at the scene of Cuddy's surrender.

He breathed in deeply, roughly, irritated that he'd spent so many nights dreaming of freedom, and, so far, freedom seemed far worse than incarceration. He transferred his thoughts to the practical matters at hand, because it was the only way to get back on his bike. He had a plan to set into motion.

* * *

Cuddy hated the thing that her life had become, something so foreign and distant from where she had been only a few years earlier. Since she became ill, she watched her daughter cry over the illness, saw the devastation and worry in the child's eyes, and, as a mother, it nearly destroyed her. Cuddy wished her child did not have to ponder sickness, death and questions of an afterlife at such a tender age. In the previous three months, in spite of all of the concerns and realities that surrounded them, both mother and daughter offered smiles and words of hope as they tried to find strength in each other.

After House left, Cuddy asked Rachel if they could read together. They watched one of the girl's favorite movies, ordered food that Rachel loved, and they tried to get lost in an evening that most people would have considered ordinary, but, for Cuddy, it was a last chance to enjoy the relationship.

That night, the girl fell asleep in the recliner. Cuddy held the child as she mourned the loss of her life and the pain her daughter would suffer. She didn't sleep for longer than a few moments at a time, wanting to savor every single minute she had left while her mind searched for validation that she was making the right decision.

* * *

House was there early. He hadn't really slept, there wasn't time and even if there would have been enough time, he doubted he would have slept well. When he walked through the front door of Cuddy's home, Rachel was standing in the living room, getting ready to leave. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, with a small smile on her face. She approached slowly, dragging her wheeled suitcase behind her. "Hi," she said softly.

House looked down uncertainly at the child, answering, "Hi."

"Good luck fixing Mom," Rachel said, waving as she walked away like it wasn't odd to see him again. He wasn't even sure if she really knew who he was.

"Thanks," he answered, pondering the fact that the girl was walking past him with so little alarm, innocently unaware that the man standing in her hallway was there to help her mother die. He could put it more politely and state, with complete accuracy, that he was just there to provide a code, and Cuddy's intentions were her own business. In the end, those words were simply a prettier explanation for what he was actually there to do.

Arlene stood next to him after Rachel went outside. "I told her you were coming to help her mother. Do you need anything from me before I leave?" the older woman asked.

"The leaving will be plenty."

"My number is in Lisa's phone, if you want to reach me."

"Thank god, I'm sure you know how much I'll miss you."

She scowled but answered calmly, "Thank you for this."

"Don't thank me," House shook his head as he watched the door close, adding once he was alone, "I'm not even sure if there's anything I can do."

He walked into Cuddy's room, bracing his cane against the wall and continuing cautiously toward her. She stared out the window and said, "I wasn't sure if you would come back."

"I said I would."

"Yea, you did," she replied as Lily walked in the room.

The plan went off easily, Lily increased the morphine allowance and House saw the security code that was entered. Cuddy sent the woman home for the rest of the day.

"Did you get the code?" Cuddy asked once they were alone.

"Yup," House answered, punching in the numbers and testing them, blocking her view so she still didn't have the code for herself. "You sure you want to do this?"

"I don't _want_ to do this. I _have_ to do this."

"No, you don't."

"Do you have any idea what this has done to Rachel? The sleepovers she gave up to be near me because she was afraid to leave me alone, the things she's learned, the realities she has already faced. She barely has time for friends or to play because she's so worried about me. It's so…unfair."

"What's unfair is quitting on her."

"I'm _not_ quitting, I'm trying to give her the next few months…to let her start the rest of her life. I'm trying to save her additional painful memories that she'll have to weed through to get to the good memories. And Mom…she's aged at least five years over the last year. She spends all of her time helping me, looking out for Rachel. I know she's a pain in the ass, but I don't know what I would have done without her. She…stood by me when I was sick. They're giving up their real lives to help sustain my hopeless one. _That_ is unfair."

"They don't think it's hopeless. They don't want you to do them any favors if it means giving up."

"You wouldn't understand, I can't stand to be responsible for causing other people so much suffering."

He blurted out an angry scoff, "You can't possibly be serious. Sitting there, acting like a fucking martyr when you didn't even hesitate to jam a stake through me. I remember. Or don't I count as one of the humans?"

"Should we discuss the irony that you're here now when I'm dying but you couldn't stand by me back when you were my boyfriend and I thought I was dying? I needed you then. I needed you clean _and _there."

His voice was low and angry, tightly controlled because the feelings were there again, just barely held under his control, "I tried. You knew how fucked up I was before you showed up, claiming to love me. You should have let me relapse _before_ giving me a taste of what my life could have been. That would have been the _right_ thing to do instead of leading me to believe that things could actually be different…that maybe I could be just a little bit happy."

"We could have found a way to get back to normal until you made sure we couldn't."

"Sometimes having a definitive answer…even if it isn't the answer you hoped for…is better than holding onto hope."

"You want to blame everything that went wrong on me. But you can't just conveniently ignore the _complete_ insanity you displayed," she argued, "no matter what led up to that point. There was no acceptable excuse for your behavior."

"I never forgot that I was insane. Everyone knows I'm insane. But you…you're just as fucked up as I am. You act like you have it all together because you are damn good at making it look that way. But I know you."

"Well," she said calmly, "we'll have a very definitive answer soon."

She didn't anticipate the wounded look and then the aura of defeat that seemed to emanate from him for an instant before he went blank again. "Why prolong the inevitable, if it is indeed inevitable?" he asked.

"You're right," she bit back.

He answered calmly, "I'll do it for you."

"I thought you didn't want to. I thought you didn't even want me to ask."

"Why die alone when you can die with someone you hate?" he questioned as he waited for her hesitation.

She just nodded, thinking things through. He reached into his jacket, producing a syringe. "What's that?" she asked.

"Narcan. In case you change your mind. I want to be prepared for the moment when you suddenly come to your senses."

"Why are you willing to do this?"

"Hoping for last minute death bed sex."

"I'm sure that cancer-ridden is a _very_ hot look on me, but you're probably covered in various unsavory microbes from whatever hooker or hookers you've been screwing, so I'll pass."

He sat back, folded his hands over his abdomen and looked at her.

"Why are you doing this? I just need the code," she said, "and then you can leave."

"Maybe I want to make sure my face is the last one you see as you close you eyes."

"Maybe," she said, angrily shaking her head, "Or…," her anger turned to fury when a realization dawned on her, "You fucking bastard. Are you going to drug me and then do the damn biopsy anyway? You are, aren't you?"

His eyes darted a few times before settling on hers, they were at a standoff, waiting for the other to draw. "I've heard from others that making major medical decisions when the patient is completely incapacitated has its perks," he finally said, ending the silence.

"So now we're digging up relics?"

"Only relics that are extremely pertinent to the current discussion."

"I should have known that you would never let me do this so easily. Not without trying to bully me into changing my mind."

"Bully you? Yes, doctors trying to convince patients to live is such unconventional cruelty."

"The fact that you're willing to do it against my will…to violate my person…is the part that is particularly upsetting to me," she yelled, her entire body filled with exasperation. "You of all people should understand my perspective on this."

"I wouldn't have had to violate your _person_ if you would have agreed to the biopsy."

"It's not surprising. I shouldn't even be surprised, because what you want is far more important than what's best for my mother or Rachel or me."

"What's best for you and your mother and Rachel…is for you to get better."

"Why do you care?"

"I like to prevent stupidity of all kinds."

"I'd think you'd like the chance to be completely free of me."

"You think that you dying would free me?" he asked, staring into her.

She hesitated, feeling uncertain and confused, and she tried to avoid a slight stumble in her words, "You have four days. I'll do the biopsy, but I want everything resolved before Rachel gets back."

"Good," he nodded exaggeratedly.

"I'm not doing it for you."

"I would never expect you to do anything for my benefit."

"What does that mean?"

"Forget it. You really want to die, don't let me stop you."

"I don't _want _to die," she answered, getting up and beginning to pace in a way that strangely gave him some hope because she seemed more animated and lively again. Standing over where he sat, she pointed a finger in his direction, "I _want_ to live. But I don't want to suffer. I don't want to suck all of the joy out of my daughter's life for several more months of useless fighting. There's no point."

House looked up from his seated position, the anger between them nearly tangible, and then the doorbell rang. "If it's treatable…"

"And if it isn't?" she retorted.

"You can add that to your long list of resentments," he said, adding while he left to answer the door, "By the way, you look much less dead when you're angry."

House opened the front door, waving Chase into the hallway. "You live here?" Chase asked.

"Nope. Patient's here."

"Alright. I've got everything on your list, but I have to get this portable ultrasound back by tonight, or they're going to notice it's missing."

"Would I let you get in any trouble because of me?" House asked, signaling Chase down the hall.

"Yea, you would."

"That hurts," House said, clutching his heart while wearing a slightly evil grin as he opened the door to the room where Cuddy was waiting.

"Oh my god!" Chase exclaimed, "you're kidding?"

"The patient," House answered calmly, walking over and gesturing at Cuddy.

"House, this is a bad idea. You need to think this through," the younger man warned.

"I'm a doctor. This is a case like any other case. Forty-six year-old female," House began.

"Stop," Chase insisted, "I can take this case and you can go back to…doing whatever you do. The two of you here together is…is…"

"Insanity?" House commented happily, "I wouldn't have it any other way. Now, forty-six year-old female, history of stage two endometrial cancer, treated successfully with surgery and chemo."

Cuddy sat in her recliner, still tense, her eyes unrelentingly glaring ahead, ready for a fight. Chase approached, "Cancer? Cuddy, I'm so sorry to hear that," he offered, his hand reaching comfortingly to her shoulder while he stood near her.

"This is the _patient_," House clarified and turned the computer screen toward Chase so he could see the scans and draw his own conclusions, "three months ago."

"Cancer's back," Chase shook his head.

House blurted out, "You let a guy be head of diagnostics, and he thinks he's some kind of genius."

"I'm a damn good diagnostician," Chase interjected.

"Prove it. Help us diagnose something here that isn't cancer."

"What if it is cancer?"

"That answer would be boring and the options much more limited. So instead of the boring, limited option, let's look for what else it might be."

"So you think it _isn't_ cancer?" Chase asked disbelievingly.

"That's what we're checking."

"Looks like cancer. Where's her blood work? What did her oncologist say?"

"There is no current blood work and no oncologist. They found the mass, and she gave up. I'm here because I love to help people who don't want to be helped."

Chase looked at him suspiciously and then turned his attention to Cuddy, "You gave up?"

"Best case scenario is that I can eke out a few more months, maybe a year, and then it's back to this anyway," Cuddy replied clinically.

"But if it isn't cancer…?" House proposed.

"What is it that you're hoping to find?" Chase asked.

Cuddy gave Chase the rundown of her recent history, and the three conducted a differential diagnosis on one of their own. After Chase's first idea was shot down, he said to House, "You already think you know what it is? Don't you?"

"I know what would be better than cancer," House answered.

Chase waited for the rest of the explanation, "What's that?"

"Autoimmune pancreatitis. Causes masses in the head of the pancreas…where hers is. It's often mistaken for cancer because it presents similarly."

Chase weighed the possibilities for a moment, "We'll run a basic blood panel, check IgG4 for elevated levels and do a biopsy of the mass."

House looked at Chase with sheer disappointment, "I feel like you've forgotten how I do this. What have you done to my department? You run tests, and I'll start treatment and see if she responds."

"We can wait for the results," Cuddy answered.

"I'm sure you want this _resolved_ before Rachel is back," House countered, "We can start to treat while we wait for the results."

"Where are we going to do the biopsy?" she asked with some alarm.

House looked around the room and smiled fakely at her.

"Here? No," she responded immediately, shaking her head.

"I was going to do it here if you were unconscious. Except for you being less unconscious…and more willing…what's the difference?"

"What does he mean?" Chase asked.

"He was going to drug me and do it against my will," Cuddy explained.

"I'm sure he wouldn't…," Chase looked between them, admitting, "Yea, OK…he would."

House, ignoring Chase, addressed Cuddy, "Where are we going to go? Do you want to take the two hour drive down to Plainsboro? It's not like we can walk into a local hospital and ask to borrow a room and a long, pointy object. Look, you were willing to die earlier, a little biopsy isn't nearly as deadly as death."

"With my luck it won't be cancer, and then I'll die from an infection."

"Because I regularly had patients die from _biopsies_," House sarcastically jabbed.

"They were at the hospital," she countered with ire.

"More germs in hospitals than here."

Chase held his hands up, "Both of you, stop. Meet me tonight at ten in the parking garage. Level three, by the elevator. I'll…find a room. And _no_ noticeable arguments between the two of you while you're there. Don't let anyone see you." He pointed at House, "It is not your department," then pointed at Cuddy, "and it's not your hospital. While you're there, you do what I say, OK? It's my ass on the line."

House nodded and Cuddy answered, "Definitely," but Chase looked uncertain.

"Fantastic." Chase addressed Cuddy while he gathered his things, "Look…while you're there, we'll do an endoscopic ultrasound to get the biopsy. That way, we can insert a stent to clear up the jaundice. Because even if it is autoimmune and responds to corticosteroids, it could take anywhere from several days to a couple of weeks to shrink the mass enough to improve your symptoms. You'll feel a little better…even if it is cancer."

Chase was gone after a few minutes, leaving a few of the supplies House had requested, including the corticosteroids to begin treatment for an autoimmune disorder. House sat on the hassock next to Cuddy's recliner and looked at the IV site. "Should probably start a new one," he commented, grabbing a packet to start a new IV.

"I guess they should have left the port," she answered, dropping her head back against the recliner.

"Are you…OK? Any symptoms you haven't mentioned?" he asked uncomfortably.

"I'm just tired."

"I can't think of a better way to exhaust yourself than by arguing with me."

She didn't answer for a few minutes while she watched his thumb drag along her arm while he chose a new spot for the IV. It felt strange to feel his thumb on her forearm, all at once clinical, familiar and bizarre. He raised his eyes and she looked almost like she wasn't angry at him for that moment. "What?" he asked.

"If this doesn't work. If it _is_ cancer…"

"I'll start this one here," he said, lining the needle up well away from a good vein.

"What? Why?" she asked, jerking her arm away.

"Because I'm an asshole."

"Here," she griped, trying to pull the equipment from his hand, "I'll do it myself."

He moved his hand and the supplies out of her reach, "I've got it. Just relax." He offered, "If it makes you feel better, I'll let you boss me around. I'm sure you miss it. Where do you want it?"

She found a spot just below her wrist, "Start it here, _please_. I'm gonna run out of veins."

"No you won't. In a few days, you aren't going to be hooked up anymore. Because you're going to feel like eating, and we'll switch to pills for the steroids once things start to improve. You won't need morphine because the pain will go away when the inflammation goes down. Half of your weakness is the depression and malnourishment. This is temporary."

Laughing unhappily, she answered, "You're never one for false hope. This must really look bad."

"It isn't false hope. I just know when my diagnoses are right. I'm confident, not hopeful. Huge difference."

"If this is cancer – ouch! Dammit, House," she yelled, looking down angrily at the tiny prick marks in her skin. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Shut up about the what-ifs. It's wasted energy." He nearly smirked when he looked at her, "You look angry."

"Yes, I'm angry, stop being a jerk and let me do it myself."

"I'm a professional, I can do this. I'm just out of practice and little unsteady."

"Fine, I'll wait and talk after the sharp object is out of your hand."

"I'll just get another sharp object."

She whispered sadly, "I can't read you at all. Are you angry or are you hurt? Cause I think you sometimes still seem bitter and hurt and sad, and sometimes you just seem pissed off. And then sometimes it seems like…maybe you missed me. I can't pick which one."

He calmly and silently started the IV and taped everything in place so it wouldn't become dislodged. She thought he was going to ignore the question. He stood to start the steroids and while he was still staring at his work, he said, "Aren't you all of those things?"

She turned toward him with a subdued and sleepy expression, "Yea, I am. All of those things…among others."

"And why can't I be all of those things?"

She shrugged. "I'm still _so_ fucking mad at you, even though you're here, and trying to help me…I'm still mad. And it still hurts like everything happened yesterday. And I am so, so fucking angry that you were going to run tests that I didn't consent to. You were immediately willing to violate my wishes because you wanted to."

"OK," he answered, unconcerned. "If it makes you feel better, I'm still pissed at you too. And it still hurts like it was yesterday. I guess we finally have something in common."

"You know what's worse? There's a part of me that is glad that you are here. It's almost…good to see you. I shouldn't feel that way." His eyes skimmed along her face without any sort of decipherable hints as to what he was thinking, so she continued, "Why are you doing this? Why didn't you leave yesterday and put this all behind you? Is this guilt?"

"This is_ not_ guilt. I would…do some things differently now, but I can't change the things I did or the things you did or anything that came after that. If we're going to play, this is the field we have to play on. There is nothing we can say and nothing we can do that will ever change that." He adjusted the controls so that she would receive the proper dosage of the medication, "I can't sit here while you give up and wait to die, not without considering all other reasonable possibilities first. I'll let you sleep until it's time for us to go." House lumbered toward the door, almost as tired as she seemed to be, and he added, "It's…almost good to see you too."


	4. Irrelevant

_A/N-Thank you so much for your follows and reviews, and thank you to all who have left comments since the last chapter: JLCH, jkarr, ammeboss, Huddylovelover, IHeartHouseCuddy, Huddy4Ever, OldSFfan, vicpei1, Suzieqlondon, KiwiClare, CaptainK8, Guest, lenasti16, BJAllen815, freeasabird14, Abby, precioussoulandsweetcheeksiin1, HuddyGirl, Alex, Boo's House, LoveMyHouse, BabalooBlue, ikissedtheLaurie, LapizSilkwood, dnkj, Jane Q. Doe, grouchysnarky, chebelle and linda12344._

_Sorry for the delay, but here's the next part. I'm guessing the next part will be up around Thursday, but if i can get it finished earlier, i will.  
_

* * *

**-Irrelevant-**

When Cuddy woke, she seemed a bit refreshed, but by the time she was finished showering and dressing to go to the hospital, her fatigue was already showing. She enjoyed the momentary freedom of being unchained from the IV while they traveled. Although he joked about her hopping on the back of his bike, they took her comfortable four-door family car. He thought she almost looked at the bike longingly. "You liked riding, didn't you?" he almost accused while they buckled up in the safety of her car.

"Maybe a little," she answered absently as she slumped into her seat to rest.

"Once they get the stent in, you won't feel so tired. If you're a good little patient, I'll take you out for a ride."

"I don't know."

"What's not to know?"

"Not sure if I can trust you…in a vehicular sense."

"Says the person who wants to die," he countered while she scowled, "are you sure you get the goal of euthanasia?"

Their argument fell silent as they drove. He was just pulling onto the highway when she looked at him and cocked her head while she tried to interpret what she was seeing, "Join a biker gang?"

"What?" he asked, stunned and turning to glance at her, trying to keep his focus on the road.

"Never thought you were the tattoo type. What's the significance?"

He looked at his wrist, to the place where the bandage he had once had in place was pulled away. "I had a bad day."

"So you got _ink_?"

"There was a guy, and he wanted a favor. I refused. So he tried to make it look like I was a rat so that I'd do what he wanted. Some people believed that I actually _was_ a rat, so they gave me amateur ink to mark me so other people would know."

"Were you a…_rat_?"

"No!"

"That doesn't make sense," she countered.

"Once people thought I was a snitch, I had a very large target on my back. He knew I'd need some sort of protection. And I did."

"You just…let them tattoo you?"

He sneered, "Yea, I sat back and watched. Boy was it great fun. I can't wait to get another one." He slowly blinked his eyes, his lip snarling just a little while he remembered. "If enough people hold you still…or threaten things that are much, much worse than being tattooed, you'll find yourself accepting certain situations that you normally would resist. I'm a middle-aged cripple without any allies…pretty easy target."

"Stuff like that doesn't _really_ happen," she shook her head, "does it? I always assumed that sort of stuff was…fiction."

"Well, maybe your cell block was nicer than mine. What do you think it's like in there, Cuddy? Do you think they give out puppies to all of the inmates and we sit around campfires and talk about our feelings until we're rehabilitated? This place I just left…made the first place look like summer camp. And believe me, I didn't make any friends during summer camp either."

She pointed at the lower end of the symbol, where the ink disappeared into an angry wound, "You're trying to scrape the ink out?"

"If you can get to the bottom layer of skin…"

"You could get it lasered off. It would be safer…less painful."

"They weren't willing to do unwanted tattoo removal for inmates on taxpayer dollars while I was in prison, and I really wanted to get rid of it so people would be less eager to kill me. Ironically, since I've been released from prison, I've been a little busy trying to stop you from killing yourself."

His eyes bored at the road ahead. She popped open the glove box and pulled out a first aid kit, grabbing his wrist and bringing it over to her while he used his left hand to steer the car. "It's going to get infected if it hasn't started to already."

"It's fine," he pulled away immediately.

"I'm letting you help me…let me help you. Give me your fucking arm," she ordered roughly, somewhat surprised when he hesitantly complied.

He accepted the medical portion of the touch, the clinical and necessary contact between them while she replaced the bandage as he drove. Then her fingers skated softly over the back of his hand. It was a touch that had nothing to do with his wound. It was the first time someone had offered him affectionate contact in a very long time. It felt so nice that it hurt.

He started to pull away and the fingers of her other hand slipped under his wrist to hold him still. "House?" her voice sounded softly.

He grunted a response.

"I didn't want anything like this to happen to you. When I pressed charges, I wanted you to face the consequence of your actions, but I never wanted anything like-"

"You didn't do it, so don't feel guilty," he interrupted uncomfortably. "Besides, I'm a two-time loser. This was from time number two and that trip had nothing to do with you."

Her fingers slipped away from his arm and returned to her lap. "You and I…what a team, huh?"

He glanced over, "What you do you mean?"

"After all of the finger pointing is over…our entire relationship can be boiled down to this giant pool of hurt and anger. It's hard to remember there ever being anything else. We have this long history of reasons to hate each other and-"

"I wouldn't be in this car if I hated you and you know that because any oncologist would take or recommend the same course of action that I'm taking. You don't need a diagnostician, but you _do_ need me. Not that it matters much. If you have your way…we only need to avoid doing more harm to each other for," he looked at his watch, "three and a half more days. How much can happen in three and a half days?"

"True," Cuddy answered, appearing almost stunned when he reminded her of her own deadline.

* * *

The rest of the drive was mostly silent. Cuddy slept intermittently and they were both contemplative. When they parked in the hospital parking garage, Chase was waiting for them. Under different circumstances, it could have been fun, or at least interesting, to see the hospital again. They entered through a service door, winding through the halls of the hospital to the procedure rooms. One room was already set up for them and an obviously new and somewhat eager doctor was waiting there.

Chase looked at the young doctor, "Eaton, not a word to anyone. Especially not Foreman or Taub. Got it?"

"And you'll consider me for the position?" she asked in an almost bubbly way.

"Whose position?" House asked, "Who left?"

"Who are you?" Eaton asked, looking him over somewhat suspiciously and then focusing on the cane.

She started to grin, widely, until Chase broke her concentration, "I won't consider anyone for my team that I can't trust."

"Got it," she smiled, directing Cuddy quickly behind the curtain, whispering, "I guess we don't have a lot of time."

"What's with the new girl?" House asked Chase while Eaton was prepping Cuddy.

"She wants a spot on my team. She's like an endoscopic sharpshooter. Great with DaVinci…all sorts of neat little tricks up her sleeve. Also incredibly smart and everyone else feels the need to prove they're smarter than her. For some reason, she's very threatening to the rest of the gang."

"A motivational fellow," House nodded approvingly.

Chase leaned closer, "Are you sure you want to be involved in this case? I can handle it from here, I'll keep you informed."

"It's just a case…a way to stay busy."

"Right," Chase answered with obvious disbelief. "Keep your hands off during the procedure. If something goes wrong, the last thing you want is to be involved in a procedure where something bad happens to the woman you were jailed for assaulting."

"When's the last time something this simple has gone wrong for you? Maybe I should do it myself," House threatened. "Look, I'm staying. I might see something."

"You used to count on me to see whatever needed to be seen. I've done probably hundreds of procedures while you sat somewhere, doing god knows what, waiting for the results."

House was consumed with thought, no longer participating in the conversation.

"House?" Chase asked reluctantly when there was no answer.

In the next breath, Cuddy was ready. Chase and Eaton quickly discussed the case and the procedure, and House stood near Cuddy while she smiled stiffly at him, "You'll be here to take me back home?"

"Take you home?"

"Yea. Will you be back in time to take me home? I'm assuming they'll use light sedation. I should be able to leave within a few hours."

"I'm staying. While they're looking around, if there is something else to see…I want to see it."

"For the whole procedure?"

"Yea."

"I don't know," she hesitated uncomfortably.

"I don't have the time or resources to run a lot of tests or to keep you here under observation until I figure everything out. I have one night at this hospital to get all of the information that I need."

"It's just weird…you hanging out while I'm like that."

"I want to make sure I don't miss anything. Don't take it as anything other than that."

Chase and Eaton began walking over toward their patient and Cuddy nudged House's arm, "Thank you for your…help," she offered nervously.

"You aren't actually worried about a _biopsy_, are you?" House scoffed.

"It's not the biopsy that worries me. It's the results. I don't want to have to listen to them try to tactfully tell me how bad things are, using the same words and methods we've all been taught to use. The last time, I could hear the trainers from every seminar about dealing with patients and sickness or dying. It didn't feel understanding or sympathetic. It felt…patronizing and rehearsed."

House searched for an answer for a minute and then whispered, "I'll answer when they call with the results. If it's bad, we'll pick up where we left off earlier, and you can pretend like none of this ever happened."

Eaton approached, explaining that they would use light sedation and that Cuddy would be out only as long as it took to gather a sample and insert a stent. As Eaton finished up, House commented, conspiratorially, "People under light sedation can still talk…they're also remarkably honest in that state, aren't they?"

"Often," Eaton answered, "but most patients can't speak with a scope shoved down their throats."

That was the last thing Cuddy remembered.

She woke and saw House sitting on the edge of her bed, repeatedly tying a long string of plastic tubing. His eyes found hers and she had an unmistakably peaceful look on her face. "You stayed?" she asked.

"Looks like. I didn't see anything except the mass we already knew was there and a lot of inflammation. The mass doesn't look any larger from what I could tell. I didn't see any new tumors. Which is good."

She rested for a moment then her eyes popped open. "House?" she yawned, "Where's your Vicodin?"

"You need some?"

Shaking her head, she tried to steady her gaze on him, "I haven't seen you take any."

"Vicodin and I," he breathed like he was rolling through memories, "have parted ways."

"Are you serious?"

"Yup."

She smiled, just a little, and slipped back into sleep.

When she woke up, House was gone. She was filled at once with a sense of disoriented sadness, rebuking herself for feeling unhappy that he was gone. She slowly moved her legs down off of the bed, and then she saw House's cane was still with her. When he left the room, he braced his cane against the chair. She guessed it was his way of showing her that he would be back and that he couldn't have gone far.

Stepping carefully to the other end of the room after testing her feet, she found the jeans that she'd worn when she arrived and pulled them over her legs, buttoning the button and looking down at the gap left between her waist and her clothing. Leaving the gown around her upper body, she tightened the ties, grabbed the IV pole and began to walk, bringing House's cane so he wouldn't have to try to make it back to the room without it for support.

After a ride on the elevator, she went down the dimly lit hallway where House's office had once been. The entire wing was quiet and would be for a few more hours until the department heads who occupied the space would be in to begin their day. Trying the door to the diagnostics office and finding it locked, she continued down the hall. As she walked farther, she saw a soft light brightening the floor outside of the office of the head of oncology.

When she walked in, House was stretched out on the red sofa that had replaced Wilson's old sofa. He looked over at her, then stared back up at the ceiling and mumbled, "Even my cane looks better on you."

"I thought you might want it," she answered, leaning and partially sitting on the desk in the room, "it's a long walk."

After few minutes of silence while Cuddy's eyes wandered the room, he said, "Who the fuck is this guy? It looks worse than when Wilson decorated it."

Cuddy looked behind her on the desk and found the name plate. Holding it in her hands, she read, "Erika Benson."

"You know her?"

"Never heard of her."

"Her sofa sucks."

"It's weird, isn't it?" Cuddy asked. "You and I were probably two of the most feared and respected people to ever walk these halls. Who ever thought that we would be irrelevant in this hospital?"

"Guess they found a way to go on without us."

"We really did define a lot here. And when we were gone, the hospital just picked up and continued on without us. All of those years I thought this place couldn't make it without me. It's so strange when you think you're really…part of something, and then you realize that it's just fine without you. Like after you die, sure people mourn you for a little while and then they move on…they hope that time heals all wounds and eventually the memory of you is less clear, less painful. They hope that the horrible pain of loss becomes the dull ache of missing and eventually fades to those occasional pangs of memory."

"Do you miss it here?" he asked.

"Oh yea, definitely. People joked, but this place was my baby long before I had Rachel. I loved it here, poured my heart and soul into this place. You and Wilson were pretty damn close to family for a long time. I guess that says something, doesn't it?"

"Did you miss me?" he asked, innocently.

"Sometimes."

"Did the…pain of loss become a dull ache and eventually an occasionally uncomfortable memory?"

Looking slightly away, she cautiously gazed in his direction, confessing, "No. That's why it still hurts like it was yesterday. I feel like I should still be walking, dressed in my best, down this hall to your office to scream at you. I feel like you should still be pissing me off and then doing something that amazes me and reminds me of why you are the only choice to head your department, even though you make me crazy. I feel like you should still be showing up at my door or calling at the most inappropriate hours. And now I have none of that. Chase was right, this isn't my hospital, it isn't your department…we're just the same as anyone else coming in off the street."

"You and I could go to the lobby around nine. Walk around together. I can guarantee you, we're still relevant here."

"We're not relevant. We're…infamous. If we walked down there at nine am, they would talk because I'm the one who used to run this place and I dated my most difficult employee, and you'd be the doctor that drove into my dining room before faking your death and going back to jail. They'd forget about the fact that I made this hospital. They'd forget about the lives you saved and the accomplishments we had here professionally. The end…has overshadowed the entire rest of the story. It really pisses me off. We've become a tale…more like an urban legend."

"If you say our names three times while staring in a mirror in a darkened bathroom our spirits return..."

Cuddy chuckled, "Sort of like that."

"You were a better dean than Foreman."

"Thanks."

"It was different when we were here. Better. Now here we are, with this ugly, red sofa and degrees on the walls with names I don't even recognize."

"Still feels like he should come in," she nodded, "this will always be Wilson's office."

They both drank in the space, each lost in their own memories and allowing a surprisingly comfortable silence.

"Was it suicide?" she asked while her fingers met nervously. "You don't have to answer that, if you don't want to…but I've heard conflicting reports."

House sat up slowly, leaning back into the sofa while he considered his answer, "I don't know. I've thought it through, replayed it in my mind thousands of times, but I've never found the one piece of evidence that I need to _know_ for certain."

"I've heard different versions of the story. I'd like to hear yours."

He glanced at her for just a moment and after few seconds of pause, he began, "A week and two days after my funeral, we got up late at some shitty little forty dollar–a-night motel. We ate breakfast…talked about our plans…about stuff Wilson wanted to do before he couldn't do it anymore. He was a little tired, a little weak, nothing horrible. We stopped at a gas station and rode for almost two hours. We were just a few minutes away from the spot where we were going to take a break, and then…he just sort of leaned, just a little. His bike drifted the way he leaned, right into a cement truck. He was still alive for a few minutes. I think his neck was broken because he didn't seem to be in much pain. It seemed like he was trying to tell me to leave before the ambulance got there but…there was too much blood and he couldn't really speak. He was…so fucked up it seemed weird that he could even talk. I went that far, I wasn't going to leave him to die alone in his own blood. The ambulance showed up a few minutes after his pulse stopped. They tried to revive him, which, given the extent of his injuries, seemed completely useless, but they tried anyway."

"But then the police came too."

"Yup. I agreed, willingly, to be transferred back. I told them who I was. They didn't just get me for violation of parole. They got me for the fake IDs and the drugs and interfering with an investigation and every little thing they could get me on. The list was…an impressive cluster of stupid little crimes. I didn't fight it-"

"Same as the first time-"

"I pled guilty to the whole thing and decided I was OK with being in prison for a long time. The outside wasn't working out for me."

"But you bargained your way out?"

They heard the sounds of janitorial staff in the hallway, getting the wing ready for the day. House stood, limping carefully over to the built-in bookshelf. "That's it for story time today, boys and girls," he announced while he removed the books from one of the lower shelves, placing them on the desk.

"What are you doing?" Cuddy questioned, stunned.

He pried the bottom up from the shelf and pulled a plastic box out from the hiding place below. He opened the box, showing Cuddy a stash of money and a few other items inside, "My safe deposit box at the First National Bank of Wilson."

He replaced the shelf and the books, and put the box next to her on the desk, leaning against the surface while he stood in front of her. He looked at her IV bag, "We'll keep the IV fluids going for the next twenty-four hours to help clear up the jaundice. Is the pain any better?"

"A little, yea. Not nearly as sharp."

"So the stent is helping?"

"Yea."

"Hungry?"

"It didn't help that much."

"Give it a few hours," House answered, knowingly, "you'll be hungry by tonight. Maybe it's just the lights in here, but you look a little less yellow already."

"It's just the lights."

Chase hurried into Wilson's old office. "You have to go. Now," he ordered, "there's a problem up in maternity so Foreman's coming in early."

"What kind of problem?" Cuddy asked immediately.

"Foreman's problem, not your problem."

Cuddy nodded with a pained expression as the three of them went to gather her remaining things. If the treatment went well, Chase suggested a removal of the stent once the issue was corrected and offered to help her get in to see the new oncologist if they discovered the problem was actually pancreatic cancer. They agreed to talk as results became available, but the biopsy would take three days. Moments later, they were getting on the elevator to leave.

She was shaky and tired, and House looked almost as bad as she did. Both were taxed physically and emotionally, and were desperately in need of food and rest. House had his cane in hand, and Cuddy was pushing an IV pole because House didn't want to stop the steroids and fluids that would hopefully help her condition.

Once on the third level of the garage, House put a hand behind Cuddy's elbow to steady her when she seemed wobbly. They both took two steps forward and found Foreman with a very unhappy, shocked and guarded look on his face. "Dean Foreman," House said with a polite nod while he directed Cuddy off of the elevator.

"What in the hell is going on here?" Foreman questioned, "and how are you out of jail?"

"They realized they had the wrong guy?" House asked more than explained.

"They had the _right_ guy. And why are the two of you together…here…at my hospital?"

"We had sex in your office," House explained, "on your sofa and your desk…and your chair. Be careful, we didn't have time to clean up."

"We were visiting," Cuddy offered, "just wanted to see what you've done with the place."

"You don't look well," Foreman offered, "come back in, I can have someone help you with whatever's wrong. Someone who isn't House."

"I'm fine," Cuddy insisted while the pair took a few more steps to leave.

"Was Chase here this morning? This is my hospital and I should to know what's going on here. You can trust me. I can help you _if_ you're honest. Wait, House, are you…on the run?"

Cuddy stepped toward Foreman, diplomatically, "He's not on the run. Dr. Foreman, House and I were trying to resolve our issues, put the past to bed so we can move on with our lives. It had nothing to do with Chase or your hospital. We weren't even in your office. Coming back here was something my therapist suggested. I hope you don't mind. We were here overnight so that we would disrupt things as little as possible, we didn't want to create a scene."

"Oh," Foreman seemed to understand, "why the IV?"

"I'm dying," Cuddy answered with calm acceptance, "cancer. That's why I'm trying to put the past to rest."

"I'm sorry," Foreman offered, "I didn't know."

"No one does. Good luck with the hospital," Cuddy offered with an extended hand.

After Foreman said his goodbye to Cuddy, he said to House, "If you want to come back, come see me. I don't think I can give you your department back, but I'll see what I can do about getting you a job."

House, looking significantly less cheerful, muttered, "I'm done here," before they walked to their car.

He carefully lowered Cuddy's IV pole, angling it so it would fit into the back of her thankfully roomy car, and he checked her battery powered pump to make sure everything was running properly. His intent was to get them home before the battery ran out. Ten minutes into the drive, just before Cuddy fell asleep, she looked at his face and saw the exhaustion and fatigue etched deeply into his expression. "Let's get a hotel, I'll pay. We'll sleep a few hours and then we can head home. All of my meds are with us anyway and we can plug in at the hotel."

Ready to argue that he was fine, House turned and saw the concern in her eyes and his reflection in the rear view mirror, and he agreed. She insisted on a nicer place than a roadside motel, a place with room service and layers of fluffy softness on top of each mattress. She got them a room with two double beds since he insisted on being in the same room to monitor her, even if it meant one of them would sleep in a chair. She ordered more food than they'd both eat under the best of circumstances, and House was asleep before it arrived. Cuddy took off his sneakers and folded the free end of the blanket over him before going to her own bed.

When she tried to sleep, she felt a sensation that she hadn't felt in so long, it took her a moment to identify it: she was hungry. Lifting the metal covers off of various trays, she found a few things that she knew would be good to eat. Careful not to overdo it, she made a small plate. A less pained expression covered her eyes when the taste of roasted vegetables and warm rice touched her tongue while House snored in the background.


	5. Payment

_A/N-As always, I thank all of you for your support and thanks to all who commented on this chapter: IHeartHouseCuddy, LapizSilkwood, OldSFfan, Boo's House, KiwiClare, vicpei1, Guest, JLCH, jkarr, Huddy4Ever, freeasabird14, Little Greg, BabalooBlue, lenasti16, housebound, Fox66, MrsBock, byte size, Abby, HuddyGirl, IWuvHouse, linda12344, Alex, ikissedtheLaurie, Huddylovelover, LoveMyHouse, chebelle, Jane Q. Doe, huddy92 and Mon Fogel._

_Here's the next chapter. I'm not sure when I'll post again, hopefully by Sunday/Monday._

* * *

**-Payment-**

When House woke in the afternoon, a few hours after leaving PPTH, his leg was tight but the rest of his body felt better than he thought was possible anymore. The bed was soft, the type of thing he dreamed about when he spent countless nights on prison cots where he could feel each of the springs beneath his body. He saw Cuddy in the next bed, taking up a tiny slice of the mattress, sleeping without any concern that he was in the room with her.

Considering, for a moment, the strange progression of events that somehow led to their very close proximity, he got up and stretched, his eyes landing hungrily on the room service tray. Without lifting her head, Cuddy pointed to the fridge, "I put some of the stuff in there so it wouldn't spoil."

"Thanks, _Mom_," he said as he slid used utensils across a dirty plate. Leaning toward her bed, he pushed down on her mattress roughly, shaking it. "Hey."

"What?" she snapped.

"Did you eat?"

She rolled a little bit, her head still on the pillow, but facing him. Nodding, a look of contentment came through on her face, "I did."

"And?"

"And what? It tasted good. I'm going to have a little more when I get up."

"How's the pain?" he asked while he changed the IV bag, momentarily distracted from his interest in food.

"Not bad at all."

"Because I was right and the steroids _are_ helping. Remind me of exactly why you doubted me?"

"We both know that the reason why I'm improving so rapidly is because the stent and the steroids are directly addressing the _symptoms_…they aren't addressing the underlying cause. We won't know for sure until the biopsy comes back."

"Well…the stent wouldn't help the inflammation in your pancreas. It would help the inflammation in surrounding organs caused by the blockage in your duct, but not the pancreas itself. Let me see," he ordered while he walked around the bed to the place where she was resting.

"No," she shook her head stubbornly.

"Why not?"

"I'm not letting you feel me up."

"You think I have a pancreas fetish? Just relax and let me check for inflammation."

"No," she said in a way that was more hesitant than firm.

He sat on the edge of the bed and tugged her covers down to her hips, "As a fake doctor…you're a horrible real patient."

While he tried to pull up the hem of her shirt, she smacked away his fingers, "What are you doing?"

"What are you so afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid," she huffed, "not at all."

"OK," he answered, disbelief drenching his words, "I'm going to feel your abdomen, like any doctor treating you for this condition would. I want to see if the inflammation is any better."

"Fine," she nodded, "but my shirt stays where it is."

"OK, Cuddy," he scoffed, beginning to reach under her shirt and then stopping, "You think that you're so fucking irresistible to me that seeing a little bit of skin is going to send me into some sexual frenzy? Your fucking ego is-"

"It's not that," she interrupted, "I don't think that."

"Then what is it that you _think_?" he sneered.

She tugged up her shirt only an inch or two, revealing a sliver of scar, "They had to make a vertical incision because of the location of the tumor and some of the lymph nodes they wanted to remove. It's huge."

"And?"

"And it's ugly."

"And?"

"_And_…nothing. It's huge and ugly, and I'd rather keep it to myself. Thank you."

House grew very somber, freeing the fabric clenched in each of her fingers and directing her hands to the bed. His thumbs slipped under the hem of her shirt and he said, "Trust me."

"It's not an issue of trust."

He nodded, pulling the shirt up in spite of her reservations, lifting the material to the bottom of her ribs but no higher. Then he opened the button on her jeans and pulled the zipper down to the bottom of the scar. His fingers traced the skin next to the still pink line left behind when the incision healed. "It _is _trust."

"I'd rather leave whatever decent memories you have of me from before intact. I don't want to replace every thought of me with something sickly and miserable."

"There is nothing wrong with my memory," he insisted. She pushed his hands away and he griped, "I can't win with you. Because you want me to remember you the way you were, but you're scared that I'm a desperately horny old bastard who's trying to take advantage of you and use this situation to get a cheap feel. All I want to do is see if the goddamn steroids are working at the source of the inflammation."

"Sorry," she offered nervously, "this is very uncomfortable. Don't you feel uncomfortable?"

"Fucking right it's uncomfortable. If I wanted a cheap feel, I'd buy one. This isn't for fun."

"I know," she admitted with sheepish frustration while she tried to relax.

"Do you actually think this little scar ruins you?" he asked more calmly, his index finger finding the tender skin there.

"Stop," she demanded, pulling her shirt back down.

"Mine's bigger," he taunted gently, "I'll get a ruler."

"Stop, I'm serious," she argued.

He calmly removed her hands again, "This isn't about your hotness."

Her mouth opened a little, "It's just-"

"You're not used to having anything to be insecure about, at least not physically. I'm the king of damaged bodies, a real expert."

"I am _not _insecure."

"You kinda are…about this. Now," he said, lifting her shirt once again, "this is just a medical examination, it isn't about your body or how it looks, but to put your mind at ease, I'll explain this to you. I've been trying to keep you from killing yourself…I think I've made that clear. If they didn't do this surgery last year, that cancer would have spread, and you would probably already be dead. This scar," he said, tracing it again, "actually makes you hotter…because if you didn't have it, you'd be dead. And one thing that isn't hot…at least to me…is dead."

"House," she fumbled, looking more confused and startled than he'd seen in ages.

"And you tried so hard to convince me that how my leg looked didn't matter. Now, can I touch your fucking abdomen? _Please_?"

She stretched her hands flat on the bed and nodded, looking away from him. His hands pressed into the area below her ribs, not at all cautiously, and he tilted his head, "Definitely feels like less inflammation than before, bec-"

"What do you mean?" she questioned suspiciously, "_feels_ like less. You didn't examine me before."

"Yea, I did," he said, while he pressed into the flesh around her organs.

"When?"

He was still concentrating, looking off to the side while he let his fingers collect the information he needed. "Right after your scope," he mentioned.

"When I was unconscious? How nice."

"I didn't do the exam vaginally."

She pushed his hands away roughly, "You're such an asshole. Is it too much to ask you to be a little bit respectful-"

"I said inappropriate things when you employed me and ordered me not to. I said tactless things while we were actually dating. Now that you aren't paying me to be well-behaved and we aren't dating, you think I'll suddenly discover tactful appropriateness? Why are you so uptight about this? You were sedated, but talking and alert, you may not _remember, _but I asked your permission…besides, I did the exam while two other doctors were present."

"This whole situation is so-"

"I get what's going on here. The thing is that you want it to look like I'm harboring this hatred for you, but I don't. I've admitted that. So now _you_ don't want to admit that _you_ still hate me. Give me a few minutes and I'll take you back home so you can sit in your room and await death," he stood abruptly, angrily, pulling away.

He stopped his retreat when her hand grabbed his and pulled him back, "I don't," she said loudly, quieting once she had his attention, "I don't hate you either. If I did…this wouldn't make me so nervous."

The disgruntled look on his face softened a bit, "I didn't do anything inappropriate to you while you were under."

"I believe you," she nodded, pulling him back to the bed until he sat down, "I know you didn't. This just makes me nervous. We may not hate each other but we do hurt each other. And I'm getting more comfortable with you and maybe that's bad."

"Probably."

Her hand still holding his, she commented suddenly, "Your fingers feel different."

"Hard to play when I don't have an instrument."

A realization dawned, "The callouses have softened? Where is your guitar stashed? Or your piano?"

"I don't have anything, Cuddy. You have seen almost everything that I own."

"You didn't put it in storage?"

"Before faking my death? There wasn't much time, and it would have been a little suspicious."

"So you have no idea where your piano is?"

"Nope."

"Someone must have it. We just need to track it down. So all you have…"

"Is the stuff I brought here, the box from Wilson's office, my bike, and the duffle bag that I left at your place. I might still have a storage unit, I didn't check yet. I've been busy."

"That's horrible."

"It would have been horrible three years ago. Now it's just…the way things are," he said with unaffected acceptance. "Worse things have happened."

"But-"

"I don't care anymore. I just slept in a very nice bed…not a cot…that bed. And I'm going to eat food that you paid way too much for. Considering the roommates I've had, you really aren't so bad. I haven't been threatened by men twice my size or had the fuck beaten out of me in days. This…is not horrible."

Her eyes softened, her head tilting empathetically as her face displayed the horror and sadness that she felt, "My god what happened in there-"

"It was joke," he played off, unconvincingly.

Pulling his hand from hers, he fastened her jeans and took the bottom of her shirt and slowly pulled it down so it was covering her again. The tips of his fingers dragged along her skin, his hands settling on the sides of her hips. He felt her shiver, just for a second, and he met her eyes. The briefest cocky grin crossed his face until she looked away and then he cleared his throat while he stood, "The tub here is huge. You mind if I soak?"

"Go ahead. We're paid up through the night. I'm not in a hurry."

"OK."

She watched him limp to the bathroom and she said, "If we're going to stay all night, I want my clothes washed. If you want them to wash yours too, toss them out of the bathroom."

He agreed, considering a teasing response about her trying to get him naked while he returned to the room service cart for a plate full of food and carried it to the bathroom door. She said, as if hearing his silent joke, "You can wear a robe. They have them in the closet."

"I'll do that. I have to protect myself from your ogling."

"Shut up," she said, shaking her head self-consciously. Taking control back over her expression she said, gently, "You're an ass."

"I know," he answered, nodding, his eyes looking a little more alive than she'd seen them since before their lives fell apart.

* * *

"Did I say anything while I was under?" Cuddy asked later when she finally emerged from her own long, hot bath.

"Yup," House answered, staring at the TV while he flipped channels.

"What did I say?"

"Can't tell you. Doctor-sedated patient confidentiality."

"There is no such thing."

"Of course there is."

"Not between the sedated version of the patient and the no longer sedated version of the same person."

"What are you worried that you might have said?" he questioned, his eyes leaving the TV to glance at her for a minute.

"Nothing, I was just curious. Sometimes people say funny stuff."

"Nope, definitely not anything funny."

She trudged over to her bed, which was right in front of the TV. "Do you want to watch a movie? It's nice being out of my place so I'd rather stay here until check out."

They settled on a movie, a good movie, but neither of them could seem to give it all of their focus. House was in his own bed, watching while he picked at food. They changed Cuddy's IV bag again, continuing steroids at the highest level he felt safe using, along with fluids to try to rid her body of the built up bilirubin that had been making her feel so miserable. Half way through the movie, she scooted over on the far side of her bed, "You can sit over here," she offered, patting the ample space that she made. "It would be easier for you to see the TV."

He waited, his expression showing that he was waiting for more to come. "I thought this situation was already too uncomfortable and weird for you."

"I don't even know what 'weird' is anymore. You were peeking down my throat from the inside not that long ago. Now we're sitting around in a hotel, wearing fluffy bathrobes with our own IV pump running. Define weird."

"Your offer feels like a trick or a test, and I'm not in the mood to try to decipher the correct response."

"No trick. You can see better from over here…and you're hogging that whole tray, so bring it with you when you come over."

House stood, casually placing the tray on her bed, bringing his pillows and propping them against the headboard. His feet still hanging off of the mattress, he sunk down into the softness and they resumed watching the movie. Their arms were only a few inches apart and Cuddy asked, out-of-the-blue, "The guy who wanted you to do a favor for him while you were in prison?"

"Raider."

"What did he want you to do?"

"His wife was sick."

She sat up, folding her legs partially under her as she faced him, "I'd think you'd jump at that chance. Why did you hold back? Why did he have to coerce you into doing what you love?"

With a slightly furrowed brow, he shook his head and admitted, "I didn't want any cases. I was trying to leave all of that behind. Move on."

"Weren't you bored in prison?"

"Yea, I was bored."

"You wanted to get away from your old life that badly?"

He nodded, "Yea. I wanted to forget all of it."

"But he was persistent?"

"That's a nice way to say it. After people became suspicious of me and things started really getting bad in prison, he brought me the case file and I took it. He won. It was interesting. A reaction to 'miracle pills' she was secretly taking. Her insecurities almost killed her. Nothing we haven't seen before though."

"So he let you out?"

"Yea. The agreement was freedom if I could diagnose her in time to save her life."

"And you saved her?"

"Yea. I was lucky it was something curable. I worked the whole case from the librarian's office, my prison cell and two brief meetings with the patient through the glass during visiting hours."

"That's amazing," she said, her admiration unhidden.

"It was."

"You wanted out of medicine completely, but you saw me and took my case in minutes. Why?"

"I was bored."

"Are you lying?"

"I wouldn't put it past me."

"Why can't you just answer the question?"

"Why do you have to ask such a stupid question?"

After a few minutes of silence while they stared at the TV, Cuddy finally said, "We're…so fucked up."

"Yea," he said, loudly acknowledging the obvious.

"When do you think it started? When did this…start to go wrong?"

Furrowing his brow and nodding his head to the side, he finally answered, "I'm guessing '89. Give or take a few minutes."

She laughed sadly, "You're probably right. We're so far from where we were then…and yet…also so far from where we wanted to go. How does that happen? How did…they guy I met…the brilliant, confident, young, arrogant man I met almost twenty-five years ago…how did he end up with a prison record and so jaded that he had to be coerced into taking a case that he would have loved at one time."

"Pain. Drugs. Life…"

"Heartbreak?"

He squinted, carefully considering but finally nodding, "Probably that too. You'll have to ask someone who has a heart to find out for sure."

"You remember how I used to sleep with you?"

"Are you using 'sleep with' to refer to the hours and hours of the best sex of your life that I gave you, or 'sleep with' as in…"

"As in the way I used to _sleep_ next to you at night when I'd close my eyes."

"You're full of stupid questions today."

"Why's that a stupid question?"

She braced for a response and he said, "Because I can't forget that. Even when I want to."

Their eyes met and held for too long while the idea lingered between them. She finally caved first, brushing a lock of hair back from her forehead. "What I meant was, I used to curl up against your left side. I used to hear your heartbeat in my ear when I'd wake up if my head was on your chest. You have a heart, so that lie won't work on me."

"Are you speaking of the literal organ or the figurative symbol of life, love and compassion?"

"Both. I saw evidence of the existence of both."

"A lot has happened in two years, Cuddy."

Her hand left the bed, reaching out with some speed because, if she waited, she guessed he would move away or she would lose her nerve. Her hand pressed firmly into his ribs over his heart, "I can still feel the actual organ beating. And you're here with me after everything that happened, so that's pretty strong evidence of the continued existence of the figurative one too."

He stared at the TV, intentionally and obviously looking past her. She pulled her hand back, cleared her throat and said, adamantly, "Wilson was a _terrible_ liar."

Gazing at her, House's expression both agreed and asked her to continue.

She nodded, emphasizing her certainty, "He was. I could see through him, so I'm sure you could."

"Fine, Wilson was a shitty liar."

"You said that…the day he died, during breakfast, he talked about the things he wanted to do…about your plans. The thing is that it is possible that you would have missed a lie…a flinch, a little tell…back when it happened. But I know how you are. You have probably replayed that discussion hundreds of times. At some point, you would have been doing something else that would have triggered a realization, and the evidence of that lie would have come through clear as day in your mind, like turning on a light bulb. If you didn't see it…it didn't happen."

"So we agree that I'm good at spotting bullshit and I'm highly obsessive. Good to know."

"I mean that Wilson must have really _wanted_ to do those things. He must have intended to do them with you or you would have seen the lie. I don't think he quit on you. It must have been an accident. Maybe fatigue or maybe something else, but I don't think it was suicide. I think he probably wanted to have that time with you too."

"Possibly. I don't know how much it matters, he's gone either way."

"The truth of what happened matters to you."

"I guess I should thank you then," he answered, making sure he had all of her attention.

"For figuring it out?"

"No. For making sure that there's no question with you. I mean…you're making it perfectly clear. You're very intentionally killing yourself. You want to leave. So thanks for being clear about that so I don't have to wonder."

"That's not fair. You don't know what it's like."

"You're right," he said with more volume, "it isn't _fair_ at all."

"You act like this is what I want."

"It is. It is _exactly_ what you want. Look at you, a few steroids and a stent and you're already showing some improvement. You weren't even willing to try that until I practically forced you."

"I don't want to get my hopes up, only to get hurt again. Steroids often make people _think_ they feel better when in actuality-"

"Fuck _actuality_. If you think you feel better, maybe you're actually getting better. In the end, it doesn't matter whether you just _think_ you're getting better or you _actually_ are getting better…what matters is, right now, you feel good. Enjoy it."

"I am. I will."

He moved to his own bed, still facing her, silent for a few minutes before he cautiously asked, "Take a ride with me?"

"A ride?"

"Yes. We can go back to your place, get a few clothes and my bike, and leave. If these are your last couple of days, why waste them? It's probably only an hour from your place. Come on, Cuddy. Besides, you can consider it payment."

"Payment? For what?"

"For what you owe me when you figure out that I saved your life."

"Maybe we could take the car."

"I was going to go there with Wilson. It was part of _the ride_. Some place he went to as a kid. You owe me _and_ Wilson. It's better than going back in that waiting room while you waste your last couple of hours staring out a window until it's all over."

She focused on a crumbled piece of her sheet while she thought, finally agreeing, "You're right. I feel pretty good since we started the steroids, and I miss Wilson too. I'll go."

"No more dying or acting like you're dying until we get back from our trip. That's part of the terms of your payment. Agreed?"

"Sure."


	6. Coming to Terms

_A/N-Hey all, sorry for the delay in posting things are crazy! I'm shooting for another update before the weekend. Thanks to all of the last chapter's reviewers: ikissedtheLaurie, BabalooBlue, HuddyLoveLover, IHeartHouseCuddy, LapizSilkwood, JLCH, jkarr, OldSFfan, lenasti16, MrsBock, KiwiClare, Suzieqlondon, berenice, Huddy4Ever, vicpei1, chebelle, Guest, Paula, byte size, linda12344, Abby, CaptainK8, HuddyGirl, Alex, freeasabird14, LoveMyHouse, Fox66, Jane Q. Doe, Mon Fogel and grouchysnarky._

* * *

**-Coming to Terms-**

"You remember what to do?" House asked while he used bungee ties to secure the duffle bag to the back of the bike. After a brief flurry of preparations and a very quick run to buy a helmet for Cuddy, they were nearly ready to leave.

She rocked between her feet a little, fueled by a combination of nervousness, excitement and jitteriness from the steroids. "Umm…just follow you when you lean and don't fight it."

"And?"

"Hang on."

"And," he nodded, seeming pleased by her recall.

"And don't try to…fucking control anything."

Taking his place on the bike, he half-smiled when she used the exact words he had spoken to her years earlier, "Then let's go."

She was wearing the light riding jacket he had purchased when he bought the bike, but the weather was warm enough for him to ride in his tee shirt. It was his favorite way to ride when the weather was warm enough. He nodded when he was ready, leaning a shoulder toward her. It was like a temporary bridge had been built over the disasters that had occurred between them. Her fingers gripped onto his shoulder while she slid her body between him and the bag that contained their belongings. "I should have bought a bike with a much higher ass capacity," he complained over his shoulder, smirking when she huffed her pseudo-disgust.

"I can't really give you any more room."

"You're fine, Cuddy."

"I can follow in my car. You can't possibly have enough space to maneuver."

"What sort of maneuvering do you think I'm going to do? I have plenty of space. This isn't a road trip, it's a _ride_, so no cars."

The slope of the seat pushed her closer to him, but she shifted until she was centered and a little space was left between them. "Are you sure you're comfortable?"

He glanced over his shoulder, handing her a helmet and demanding, "Put your damn helmet on and let's go."

Once she was ready, she cautiously reached around his body, interlocking her fingers in front of him. Without another word, they were going down the driveway to the road. The ride was beautiful, the weather perfect for such a trip. She kept her legs tense, her feet braced against the foot pegs to keep a little distance between their bodies, but after a few miles she grew tired. She allowed her body to slide closer when she realized that there was little point in fighting their gravitation. Her jacket was unzipped, their torsos separated by tee shirts, and the warmth of the other's body was strangely comforting. It was an acceptable circumstance, a framework where they could safely coexist so close to one another, falling into the familiarity of contact almost too easily.

When they found a long, winding road, House zipped along the asphalt, dipping the vehicle from side to side as he rounded the curves. Later, stopped at a traffic light a few minutes away from their destination, she stretched out her fingers, trying to relieve the cramping that resulted from tightly interlocking her digits while they wound along the country roads. As they began to move again, she placed her palms flat against his abdomen in a way that seemed perfectly natural. She didn't even realize how comfortable her touch had become until he took a deep breath and she felt his body shift under her palms. In a circumstance where their contact wasn't precluded by their own beliefs that it was inherently bad for them to touch, it felt immeasurably good. All recent contact in their lives had been defined by their roles, hers as a patient or a mother, his as prisoner or suspected informant.

They slowly weaved through the more populated streets, but even the areas where there were more people were barely speckled with activity. House pulled directly up to a cabin, it seemed like he was searching for a specific one. Once he stopped the bike and his feet were braced on the ground to prevent it from tipping, he leaned his shoulder down so Cuddy could use it to dismount just like he had when they rode together a few times as a couple.

Standing next to the bike, she pulled off her helmet and smiled while she looked around, her expression openly content until he removed his helmet and their eyes met. In seconds, their rigidity settled back over them. It was as awkward and uncomfortable as two people who just woke up after drunkenly falling into bed together the previous night, as if they suddenly realized that the closeness they'd enjoyed was a forbidden mistake. She stepped away from the bike, trying to move away from the moment by physically distancing herself from him.

"Wait here," House said, hanging his helmet on one of the hand grips, retrieving his cane and moving purposefully toward the cabin he had been seeking.

A woman dressed in designer clothes that were supposed to make her look sporty answered the cabin door. Cuddy could see the exchange but couldn't hear any of the words spoken. The woman who was staying at the cabin initially folded her arms, shaking her head and denying his request. Finally, frustrated, House dug into his pocket and held up cash. She hesitated, looking around and clearly wondering if the man on her doorstep was sincere, but a moment later she was ordering her family to gather their things. Her children, three boys with clothes covered in the evidence of their adventures, were moving their belongings to the car. A man, apparently the woman's partner, argued until she pushed the offered wad of money into his hand.

House limped back to Cuddy and, leaning on the bike, said, "Our cabin will be ready momentarily."

"It had to be _that_ cabin?" Cuddy asked with bemusement.

"Yup."

"There are two other cabins that seem empty down there."

"I know. Which means they don't have to move far."

"Why this particular cabin?"

"Cabin twenty-three. It's the one Wilson always stayed in when he was a kid. He wanted to come back."

"He probably had really great childhood memories from his vacations here."

"If I could somehow revive Wilson for just a few minutes to tell him one last thing…," House began, Cuddy turning immediately toward him to hear the confession he was offering, "I'd tell him how lame this place is. We could have gone anywhere…and he wanted to play boy scout."

"I remember how exciting family vacations were when I was a kid. Back when I didn't have to be the one to worry about passports or reservations, while trying to make sure I packed everything I needed and remembered to unplug the toaster."

"You probably still worried about that stuff as a child. Probably made lists to be sure you remembered everything you needed."

Cuddy smirked, "It's still different as a kid. Places like this are paradise."

"So are strip clubs when you're seventeen but he didn't want to go there."

"I'm sure you and Wilson would have done your share of degrading women along the way."

"Degrade women, go fishing and toast marshmallows…all part of a Wilson-inspired bucket-ride."

"Fishing?" Cuddy asked, her displeasure showing.

"Yup."

"OK," she nodded slowly, agreeing to one of Wilson's dying wishes.

"I'll go to the store and get marshmallows, but since you're the only woman here to degrade, grab your bikini and some bait and make Wilson's dreams come true."

Cuddy laughed, "Wilson didn't see me like that."

"Wilson _wanted_ to see you like that but you didn't let him. So did all of your male cousins that you probably defended with clever explanations like, 'he would never think about that because he's my cousin,' and the woman in college who seemed just a little too eager to help you try on different outfits before parties."

"And what about the ex who-"

The former occupants of the cabin approached, interrupting, "OK, it's all yours. I called the office, told them we needed a second cabin," the woman stated. She looked back and forth between House and Cuddy. "Recreating old memories?" the woman suggested knowingly.

"Sort of," Cuddy answered, her fingers tracing ridges in her helmet.

"You're lucky to have a man who's willing to go to these lengths to recreate a memory."

Cuddy offered an uncomfortable smile before the annoying couple and their three muddy children were getting into an over-priced sedan and driving a few hundred feet down the road to another site.

The cabin was nothing like the expensive, cozy hotel room from the night before. They doubted much had changed since the days when Wilson went there. There was a spacious room, floored in ancient, cracked linoleum, with a bulky but sturdy wooden table and chairs. A basic kitchen lined one wall, and at the other end of the room was a forty year-old sofa covered in a garish yellow, green and brown floral pattern.

Less than thrilled with the new accommodations, Cuddy tried in vain to hide her displeasure. Since the IV pole was too long to bring with them, House attached her IV bag to a hanging light, rested the pump on the edge of the table, and started the mix of steroids and fluids for Cuddy. He gazed proudly over his 'makeshift doctoring' and brought a seven inch black-and-white TV to the table for her to watch before he left, promising to return and 'continue the fun.'

He came back to their cabin after convincing the recently displaced family to sell him half of their fishing gear and a sizable percentage of their vacation supplies. Cuddy watched while the three boys carried the provisions into the cabin where she was waiting, and House handed each of them a generous tip before they walked out the door. "Roughing it isn't so rough," he observed.

"You took their cabin, and then you took their supplies?"

"Not _all_ of their supplies. Besides, _they_ have a car…and money. Anyway, they said they're going to a hotel for the rest of this trip because, as I'd gladly tell Wilson if I could, this place is lame."

"I'm sure this wasn't the only place that he wanted to revisit. Where else did he want to go?"

"Nowhere else you and I can get to before the deadline. We can hang out here until Chase calls with the biopsy results. Besides, as lame as this is, it's still better than prison."

"Too bad you weren't locked up before you worked for me, I could have probably talked you into a lot of clinic hours by reminding you it wasn't as bad as prison."

"No, because _avoiding_ clinic hours is better than doing clinic hours and better than prison. So many wins."

"But you forget that you're stuck with your ex here. I'm not sure how your point system works when you're ranking all of these horrible situations that you've had to endure."

He was staring at the way droplets fell from the IV bag into the drip chamber, but a shift in the tone of her voice got his attention. He focused on her, realizing that he discovered just a hint of flirtation in her inflection. It was even there in her eyes for a moment before she realized that he was studying her and it made her remember herself. The look disappeared from her face as her expression grew stoic once again but he answered anyway, "It isn't so much a scientific point system as it is an assessment of the overall experience."

The IV pump beeped when the medication was finished, so House disconnected her while she asked, "So what's next in this…overall experience?"

"Now, we catch a big'un that makes Wilson proud."

* * *

They were along the banks of a creek that extended from a nearby river. Cuddy was resting on an open blanket, a bit tired after the day's activities but enjoying the sounds of the river and the heat of the sun. House stood by the edge of the water, fishing although he didn't catch anything. Few words passed between them, but those that did were friendly enough.

"When Wilson said he wanted to come here, he never mentioned anything about wanting one of us to wait around on a blanket while the other one caught something," House shouted back over his shoulder when he started to feel annoyed by his boredom.

"But you haven't actually caught anything, so we're both disappointing him."

"Come on, Cuddy, are you really so stuck up that you can't at least make it _look_ like you're fishing."

"I'm _not _stuck up."

"So you say."

"You think," she said while she stood, "that you can taunt me into doing whatever you want me to do?"

He watched while she walked closer and once she was next to him, he nodded, "You're here so I kinda think I can." She smirked, turning away until she heard him bargain, "Just throw one line. Stand here and pretend to do this with me for ten minutes. Then we'll go do something else."

"I'll do it once, and then you'll let it drop?"

"Absolutely," he said while he grabbed another rod and the bucket of bait and brought them to her.

"OK," she agreed, quite hesitantly.

"After fishing, I'll be busy trying to test the theory that I can taunt you into sex."

She pushed a hip out, trying to look offended at his suggestion, but retorting, "Was that part of your plan with Wilson? I mean, that's why we're here, isn't it…to do what Wilson wanted to do?"

"If I say yes does that mean you'd be more easily taunted into sex?"

"You'll have to say yes and find out."

"OK," House shrugged, "Sure. Sex was part of the plan."

"I can't believe you said that."

"Why not? It's just words, and it isn't like Wilson's alive anymore to cash in."

"But now I know it wasn't part of the plan."

"What if I said his dream was just to blow me, would you believe that?"

She shook her head, laughing, "Nice try, but you already showed your hand."

He looked sort of pleased with himself that she was laughing. The moment was so comfortable that it became awkward, so he held out the rod and scooped a minnow from the bait bucket. "Here," he practically ordered.

"Oh, no," she shook her head, "I'm not sticking a hook through that."

"Why not? You cut into a few humans before the administrative urge won out, didn't you?"

"To help them or to learn from them, not to use them as bait to kill something else."

"Wuss."

"Name calling will not work. Standing here pretending to fish is one thing, but this…nope, I won't do it. Can't I put something else on the hook? Like bread?"

"Are you trying to catch a duck?"

"I'm not _trying _to catch anything."

"Where's the realism, Cuddy?"

"I'm a very good pretender," she insisted.

He took the hook and picked up a worm instead of a minnow and said, "You can blame the untimely death of the worm, and if you're unlucky enough, any ichthyic casualties, on me. You're doing this completely against your will."

She looked into his open palms where the shiny hook waited and the worm squirmed. "I'm not doing it."

"Just pick up the hook and skewer the damn thing. Pretend it's me, it'll be easy."

Her look was blank for a moment, but her eyes slowly honed into an angrier expression. "Fuck you," she said calmly, with a forced and angry smile before she turned and began the walk back to the cabin.

He didn't call for her or even move to follow her right away; he watched her retreat, looking so much like the angry, powerful, stubborn woman he'd seen stomp away from him hundreds of times. Pondering the realization that he was not at all ready to let go of what he'd just rediscovered, he dropped the worm and hook on the ground, left all of his newly acquired fishing gear there by the water and began limping slowly back to their cabin.

She was so irritated that she wasn't even sure what to do once she got back inside. Sitting down at the table because she was both tired and antsy, her fingers tapped on the flat surface while she planned. The door flung open and House entered, announcing, "New experiment: I'm going to prove that your overall level of hotness is directly proportionate to your level of rage."

"I agreed not to talk about or act like I'm dying during this trip," she argued as she stood, "but I guess you didn't agree to put a hold on barbs that continuously rehash the past."

"It was a joke."

"Not funny. Not at all funny. I've been remarkably considerate about our past…put things aside because you are trying to help me and I thought the least I could do was help you with your Wilson ride, but you just had to get in that jab."

"Did I mention that it was a joke?"

"Because it's funny to think that I want to hurt you?"

"Everyone else thinks it's funny to hurt me," he quipped.

"And see, that also is not funny. Maybe…I don't _want_ to hurt you. Maybe out of all of the emotions and wishes that are flying through my head…maybe hurting you isn't one of the things I was considering."

"You don't have to pretend like part of you still cares."

"Like you do?" she scoffed.

"Like I do," he acknowledged the fact that to him seemed obvious.

"I could feel the concern. I really could," she sarcastically asserted, "you find out I'm dying and your natural reaction was to get high and have sex with hookers. That shows…just how deeply you _care_."

"Maybe it does."

"Slowly destroying your mind and body with whatever drugs you took while fucking other women is a shitty way to demonstrate your concern for me. I guess I should double check, there were hookers involved and your feelings were hurt, so did you marry any of them or was this just plain old fucking for fun?"

"You're forgetting that I was slapped in the face with your condition fresh out of prison."

"The fact that you could even...," she paused, closing her eyes, "just forget it. This argument is pointless because every single fight we have will eventually boil down to the fact that we each feel hurt and wronged. It devolves into the same exact argument over and over again, and we can't seem to get around that. I told you that our end overshadowed everything else that we did professionally. I guess it's the same in our personal lives. Everything else is buried under all of the bullshit and we're trapped by our ending."

"That made sense a week ago."

"It makes sense now."

"You're missing the one obvious error in that statement."

"Which is?"

"Which is that our ending _was_ our ending a week ago, but we're here now, so what happened before, wasn't our real ending, it occurred somewhere in the middle. The ending hasn't happened yet. It's still messed up and probably really unhealthy by most people's relationship standards, but this fucked up ending is still most likely going to be better than the ending we thought we had."

"Is it going to go any differently? The fact that you ran to hookers and drugs as a reaction to my illness or emotional pain seems remarkably familiar."

"You think that I had time to set up everything to help you and take care of my needs in those few hours I was gone?"

"You said you were going to get 'fucked and fucked-up' in case it was your last night of freedom. How else should I interpret that statement?"

"When I left your place, I went to see Chase. I had to get everything ready so I could either convince you to attempt treatment or allow me to do a biopsy or find a way to get a biopsy without your permission. I didn't have time to work in a hooker and a relapse while I was busy trying to save your life. And just so you're aware, if I ever relapse, I'm going all out. It won't be a tab or two of Vicodin, so it's going to take a while."

"Why did you say that then? Just to hurt me?"

"What did you _want_ me to say? Did you want me to tell you that every single rational thought in my head was warning me to get as far away from you as possible but I couldn't bring myself to walk away?"

"Was that the truth?"

"Yea it was the truth," he hollered, reacting without thinking.

"Then yes, that is what I wanted you to say."

"I walked in that door and you were ready to rip my fucking head off as soon as you woke up. The mood seemed a little off for sentimental confessions."

"Consider how we parted the last time I saw you. I had every right to want to rip your head off. You can't play innocent here either, you've been just as ready to dig into me."

"I had pretty good reasons to be pissed too."

"Regardless of reasons, you didn't exactly attempt to wave the white flag."

"I saw you, found out you were dying, and within minutes I learned that you didn't want to find a cure. Actually, you wanted to expedite the process. Were you really looking for emotionally mature, calm rationality for me? I might have _said_ the wrong thing in your mind, but I _did_ the right thing in my mind."

"I am," she stepped away, thinking, processing, trying to find her own truth, "I'm so tired of hurting."

He looked down, swallowing roughly and answering with a garbled voice, "Me too, Cuddy."

"I'm tired of you getting hurt too, because no matter what you believe, that isn't what I want. Every quiet moment I keep searching in my mind for where it all went wrong. It's like…if I can figure it out in my mind, maybe I'll know how to fix it."

"If you can find this special pivotal moment, what are you going to do, go back in time?"

"I don't know. Maybe it could help us understand what happened. Maybe something could shed some light on this…fucked up mess."

"Intentions aside, I hope my diagnosis is right or all of this theorizing and introspection is completely pointless."

"It isn't pointless."

"Why go through this…why drag up all of this shit when we could just do what we always do and ignore it?"

"Thanks for acknowledging my concerns," she said, put off and beginning to mentally leave the conversation.

"I just don't see the point in dredging up all of this bullshit because-"

"Because if you're wrong, and it's cancer I'll be dead anyway," she interrupted, speaking quickly.

He looked away and she could see the pain on his face. She reached out, took his hand in hers, whispering, "House, look-"

"Don't fucking comfort me," he ordered, withdrawing his hand.

"Stop it," she countered, "you're pushing me away."

"Damn right I am. Don't pretend like you're not just as eager to push me away."

"You aren't the only one who doesn't want to get hurt."

"Then hopefully you understand that I don't want you to touch me and try to make me fucking feel better so that it hurts more when you're dead," he said, backing unsteadily away.

"Stop," she said softly, approaching him.

When his back neared the wall he stated with a shockingly quiet but resolute voice, "Don't touch me."

She picked up his hand again and held it between hers while he looked away, "I don't want to hurt you. So let's _try_ to stop…just try…starting now."

"I need more."

"What do you need more of?"

"Even if it's cancer. I need you to try."

"Believe me, House, I want you to have the chance to gloat about your brilliant diagnosis. I _want_ you to be able to tell me I was wrong and that my life is _far_ from over. I'll admit that part of me is _so_ hopeful that…that maybe it isn't cancer."

"You finally admit that it might not be cancer _now_? I need to know what happens if it is. If it _is _cancer-"

"Do we have to discuss this right now?" she interrupted, pulling away.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her back toward him, "You want me to dangle myself out there to be hurt while you sit at a comfortable distance with all of your safety nets in place?"

"That's not true," she argued.

"It is. It's completely true."

"What do you want me to say?"

"You can name your terms. I'm not asking you to endure years of treatment and pain. I'm asking that you try. No matter what the biopsy says…you try basic treatment, just surgery to remove and one or two rounds of chemo. I'll do everything I can to make sure you aren't in misery and if treatment fails, I will personally make sure your suffering ends. So you name your terms. What do I have to do?" his eyes locked on her, he made it clear, he wasn't backing down from his request.

"If it's pancreatic cancer how much time will I realistically get even if treatment is successful? A year, maybe?"

"I _died_ to spend a few months with Wilson. I didn't even get that long, I got a week and a few days with him. And you know what? I don't regret it."

"You don't?" she asked, her tone somewhere between confusion and skepticism.

"I'd buy that time all over again and I'd pay the same price. So don't tell me a whole _year_ isn't worth it."

"I'm sorry you lost him so soon."

"I lost everything, and I'll deal with that, but you have no right to ask me to try if you won't."

Her face changed, her eyes met his a few times while she considered his statement, but he could see her resolve shifting. Her jaw set in place and her gaze was determined when she nodded, "I'm listening."

"Like I said, name your terms."


	7. Allowed

_A/N-Hi all! Sorry for the wait. I'm gone most of the weekend, so the next chapter will likely be out on Wednesday. The next chapter will be the last, unless I decide to do an epilogue, but I'm not sure about that yet._

_Thank you so much to everyone who is following this story as it comes nearer to its close and thanks to all of last chapter's reviewers: housebound, prescioussoulandsweetcheeksiin1, BabalooBlue, Guest, freeasabird14, JLCH, IHeartHouseCuddy, jkarr, Huddylovelover, OldSFfan, lenasti16, Suzieqlondon, MrsBock, Huddy4Ever, CaptainK8, BETEDELSTEIN, KiwiClare, Abby, HuddyGirl, ikissedtheLaurie, Alex, chebelle, LoveMyHouse, linda12344, grouchysnarky and Mon Fogel._

* * *

**-Allowed-**

"I don't know what my _terms _are," she said hesitantly, finding a seat on the sofa.

He leaned his cane against the wall and limped over to sit at the other end, "Of course you do. You keep saying you don't want to die, but you _have_ to. You keep mentioning the same problems, which means you've acknowledged what they are. Your terms would be the solutions to those problems. There seem to be three principal reasons you feel you need to kick it. Number one: you don't want Rachel's life to be about you being sick. Is that right?"

"She doesn't even have time to be a kid."

"Who better to make sure she's surrounded by childlike behavior?"

"Hunh?"

"I'm immature enough for both of us."

"You're going to hang out with my kid?"

"I'm thinking of starting a company and staffing it with ex-cons who really want to get a fresh start with a career in childcare. Think we'll catch on?"

Cuddy's eyes were wide with uncertainty while she tried to figure out how much of what he was offering was part of the punchline and how much was genuine. "I don't get it."

"What's not to get? I'm fun. I'll take her to do things, you can come too if you want. Then she'll get to have more non-shitty memories with you, and she'll be happy, which in turn will make you happy. And she can go hang out with her friends, because I'll tell her that I'm looking out for you. I'm a doctor, sort of, so she can leave your side without worrying."

"That is a huge responsibility."

"Well, you could thank me for my hard work by giving me a room at your place, since I am currently homeless. Or you could put up a tent in your yard."

"I don't know, kids are so-"

"I am the only one who knows how to have enough fun to really distract her. I'm uniquely qualified. I have over half a century's experience perfecting childhood."

Cuddy chuckled, "'Unique' is a sound assessment."

"Really, it gives me an excuse to do all of the stuff people seem to frown on angry, old, crippled men doing by themselves. You show up with a kid, people are less likely to think you're hanging around to prey on theirs. That was easy, that problem is solved. Next problem: the burden on your mother."

"She's not saying it's a burden, I am. She's old."

"Believe me, I know. I'll be helping with the kid, you already have a nurse hanging around, and I'm sure you can hire someone to clean that place, if you haven't already. I can take you to appointments or, more likely, I'll have my team come to you to treat."

"Your _team_?"

"I always have a team. They never really move on. But if Chase can't figure out how to bring along the MRI, and we need to go for scans or tests, I'll take you."

"That would help her out."

"Help her? What the fuck else does she have to take care of? She sounds like more of a burden than you ever could be."

Cuddy stared while she tried to bury her amused expression, "You realize that if you're at my house, you'll have to deal with her on a daily basis?"

"I'm guessing that after a few weeks there with me, she'll want her own space again."

"I'm not kicking her out."

"Who said anything about kicking her out? I think I might…inspire her to independence."

"You two are going to kill each other."

"She'll be thrilled to be in the presence of the son she never had. She loves me…sort of. Or maybe she loves hating me. We're complex."

Cuddy could be seen weighing the options, and he didn't want to allow her too much time to find flaws in the plan, so he added, "Your final major concern, spending your last few months in pain."

"I'm sure that sounds horribly selfish."

"To not want to be in pain? I get _that_ part. That's the part that makes the most sense to me. To you, the martyr-ish part is more justifiable, but to me-"

"And now I'm a _martyr_?"

"Well…I think you're being sincere."

"Am I supposed to thank you for thinking I'm _sincere_?" she snapped.

"No. I think sacrificing yourself for them is the opposite of what they want, but you're doing it for reasons that make perfect sense to you. However, your third reason makes sense to me, while you're busy feeling guilty for how your illness makes _them_ feel."

"It's so nice that your declaration of understanding is dripping with sarcasm."

"Anyway, I can think of no better person for you to trust with pain management."

"I don't want to be so drugged up that-"

"It's more than just drugs," he interrupted, "I've learned a lot during two different periods of drug-freeness. Plus, even when I had Vicodin, sometimes it didn't even touch the pain. Sitting in a room by yourself, which is a lot of what you've been doing, gives you nothing but time to consider the end, to think about your pain and to give up. It sounds like prison, maybe worse. Pain management is about distraction, redirection and finding stuff that makes putting up with the way you feel worthwhile. I am good at all of those things and I'm an exceptionally talented opioid doser. I get pain, but I really, really get avoiding pain. What are your other terms?"

"What about you?"

"I've named my terms. You let me set up treatment for you if you need it. And, while I'm not _demanding_ it, a place to stay seems like the least you can do. If you don't give me a room you'll just feel guilty anyway."

"I mean what do you want…after that?"

"After that? My outlook is sort of short range for the moment. All I need to know is…do we have an agreement? Are you in?"

"This is all so damn simple to you, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes."

"It isn't simple to me. I'm trying to make sure everyone is taken care of."

"It _is_ simple," he answered, his cool shattering. "Look, I just finished my second long-term stay in prison…which is exactly two more than I ever thought I would see. In between those times, I gave up almost everything I had to be with Wilson, and he died a few days after we were finally free from work and all of the other bullshit that was hanging over us. Then, I did the right thing, stayed by his side until the ambulance arrived, and because of that I was arrested and charged. I paid my debt to society…again, and after I got out, I went to see my mother, and she's dead-"

"Your mother died?" Cuddy interrupted.

"Yup. Dead. So I tried to find a case…something I could get lost in until I figured out what in the hell I was going to do, and I found you…the way I found you. Everywhere I turn, something else hurts. You said you're tired of hurting? Well so am I. I'm tired of reaching out for things and watching them disappear. At some point, I started fondly remembering the days when it was just my leg that hurt, because that I can handle."

He trailed off, his face tense, worried and lost. She reached across him, attempting an embrace, "I'm so sorry about your mother."

"Don't," he responded, standing, pulling far away from her, grabbing his cane and walking toward the door. "I deserve an answer. Dying is one thing, but giving up without even trying is something else. Figure out what you're doing before you involve me."

The sun felt appropriately harsh when he stepped onto the porch. He needed something to stimulate his senses that didn't involve the painfully raw ache that he was feeling inside. His entire being felt cold and sore, like his whole self was somehow bruised. Often when he hurt, particularly while he was incarcerated, he would imagine the way Vicodin would work to relieve his pain. He would remember the taste, the feeling of it in his mouth, the way his body would, after a few minutes, begin to register the effects of the pill. While he went back to the edge of the creek where they'd left their fishing supplies, he felt like even Vicodin wouldn't begin to ease his pain.

He sat unceremoniously on the ground next to the recently abandoned fishing pole. He could almost feel Wilson sitting next to him, shaking his head. House had no idea what to do, so he fished and stared at the way the bobber flowed and weaved with the currents in the water. He sat there for a long time, realizing that the bait was probably long gone from his hook, but he really didn't care, he just needed to sit.

A great deal of time had passed without even considering his next step or what the following day would bring. If Cuddy hadn't come to find him, it was possible that he would have sat on the bank all night, but she eventually made her way down to where he was. She stood in front of him and said, "You didn't really give me time to answer."

"Needed air."

"I really don't want to die. And, if you're still willing to follow through with your offer, I'm willing to try too."

"Even surgery?" he asked without looking at her.

"If necessary."

"And chemo?" he followed up, his eyes moving over her.

"Yes," she answered, sitting next to him with only two or three inches between them, "I'm willing to keep trying as long as there are _viable_ options and my daughter is alright."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. For as long as we have rational options or…for as long as it's physically possible. Whichever comes first."

He looked at her, relief threatening to overcome him. Following her features with his eyes for proof of her sincerity, he finally seemed to allow a full cycle of breath. He may have moved a scant distance closer to her. Physically there was only the tiniest change in proximity, but the great distances between them shrunk considerably.

"I'm feeling a little lightheaded." He turned to her with obvious concern, so she clarified, "I haven't eaten and I'm not hooked up to my liquid diet as much anymore. I think I need some dinner. You hungry?"

She could actually see him trying to read his body for signs of hunger, as if his current level of stress had caused him to disconnect the sensors that monitored his physical needs. "Sure," he answered after a decent amount of time. "I caught a sort of mossy-looking water plant. Do you want that or something out of one of the cans we bought from the annoyingly traditional family?"

She smiled gently and shook her head, "Can we ride down to that store in town and get something that doesn't come in a can or from muddy water?"

* * *

When she climbed on top of his bike, the hesitation present earlier in the day was no longer evident. She wanted to hold him, to touch him, to try in some way to offer comfort for the pain he was clearly feeling and seek a comforting touch for the aches she nursed as well. Her hands slid around his waist immediately, moving to his front, one hand on his ribs and another across his stomach. No longer trying to minimize contact, she used the moment to be as close as he'd allow because she guessed it was the only way he'd allow it. She waited for the tense rejection she knew he could produce, for that awkward stiffening of his body that would let her know that her affection was unwelcomed, but after a few seconds of uncertainty, his resolve melted. His body was engaged in the touch, leaning back into her. Momentarily she wanted to ditch the helmet so she could rest her face against his back.

They sat on a park bench in front of the store and ate the items they had purchased. The trip had long moments of silence so far and most of the meal was quiet until Cuddy asked, "What do you think Wilson would say if he saw us sitting here together?"

House finished chewing while he thought and then he said, shaking his head just as Wilson would have done, "This…this…this is a mistake. But yet," House turned his head in a thoughtful and compassionate way, "maybe…maybe this could work. Just…don't screw it up."

Cuddy's shoulders shook while she giggled, "That's pretty good."

Half smiling, House answered as the memories ran through his head, "I spent a lot of years being advised by him."

"How much of his advice did you take?"

"I guess I should say 'I spent a lot of years being advised _at_ by him.' Sometimes he was full of shit and sometimes he said exactly what I needed to hear."

"You guys went through a lot together. He would worry about the two of us together again. Wouldn't he?"

House nodded, "Yea, he definitely would. Aren't you?"

"Worried? A little. At first I was really concerned."

"And now?"

"Right now?" she asked, taking a careful breath before she looked at him, "I feel pretty good, better than I have. You did that."

"That's not me, it's the treatment."

"The treatment suggested by you."

"I told you…your condition was making you depressed."

"You did. Are you worried?"

"Worried? About being here with you? No," he scoffed, but then added, "It's probably a mistake…but when has that ever stopped me from doing something."

"I should be offended by that."

"It's not just because of you. It's because of…us. And you _should_ be complimented. The people who can hurt you the most are usually the ones who really matter."

She finished her drink, tossing it in the garbage and asking abruptly, "Is that why you don't want me to touch you? Because I matter and you want to avoid people who matter?"

"No," he answered stiffly.

"I mean, I know you aren't the most…touchy-feely man around, but you used to let me touch you."

"I let you near me before and you gave up on me. Look how that turned out." He tossed his garbage toward the can without looking at his target, missing, "I can't do that again."

She stood, picking up the garbage from the pavement, "I wasn't giving up on _you_."

"If you checked out before exhausting all of the reasonable possibilities when I was offering to do whatever the fuck you wanted just to get you to try…hard not to take that personally."

"And now I am…I'm exhausting all possibilities." As he looked up from the bench and squinted from the brightness of the lazily setting sun, she stepped in front of him to block the light and said, "You ready?"

"Definitely."

They were silent as they went to the bike, in fact they were silent until they returned to the cabin. After Cuddy's evening dose of medication was finished, she started organizing their supplies and House groaned, "You're organizing our stuff and by the time you're done organizing it, we'll have to leave."

"I was thinking. I needed something to do."

He walked over to the table she had just cleared, and he ripped a small hole in a bag of rice, pouring a few handfuls out onto the table. He watched while the grains scattered across the surface, a few of them falling to the floor.

"What in the hell are you doing?" she asked angrily.

He began pushing the rice into a line with his finger, one grain at a time, "Demonstrating."

"You're trying to annoy me into doing something?"

"No," he assured with a cocky overtone, "I'm demonstrating how to find something to do when you need to think. You're doing things that are productive…when you think, you're supposed to do things that are mindless or repetitive or fun or…whenever possible…deeply annoying to the people around you."

Cuddy continued organizing, her frustration evident in the way that she moved objects brusquely and decisively to new locations.

"OK," he began while he sat back in his chair, one finger absently continuing to play with his mess, "I'll bite. What are you thinking about?"

"Everything."

"Everything? So you're trying to discover the key to time travel, while weighing the moral questions surrounding cloning, while critiquing new and exciting recipes for salsa?"

"I want to know what you want."

"To ensure that world peace will never threaten to upset the delicate balance of this crazy world of ours?"

Cuddy pushed a can into the center of his pile of rice, "I'm not joking. I want to know what you want."

Answering somberly, he replied, "To make it through the next few days without getting kicked in the gut. Both literally and metaphorically."

"So why stay with me when there is so much potential for pain?"

"What do you want, Cuddy?"

"I want to know what you want."

"You first," he countered, convinced that she'd walk away.

She nodded, "I want more time. With Rachel, with life, with…you."

"Don't say that."

"I was answering your question. Now tell me…why are you here?"

"Your ass's gravitational pull won't allow me to leave."

"This can't possibly be about my ass or my tits or whatever body part you want to pretend still tempts you."

"You're looking better each day. Your color's better, you're already looking less starved."

"You could find women who look amazing…who you don't share such a difficult history with. You could find something simple and pretty much guarantee that you won't get hurt, but you're here."

"Sounds like you're already looking for a specific answer."

"Is this…out of obligation?"

"I don't do things out of obligation."

"You do things out of loyalty."

"But this isn't one of them."

"Then what is it?"

"Jesus, Cuddy," he complained, standing, "you want to write up a script to have me follow?"

"I'm so sorry for everything you've lost. I'm sorry about Wilson and your mom, and I'm sorry for what you went through in prison."

He quickly made his way toward the door, but she moved in front of him, trying to convince him, "It's dark out. Don't go outside."

"Then stop talking. I don't want to talk about Wilson or my mom or prison."

"I'm sure you must feel so…," she started, reaching out to take his forearm in her hand.

"Don't," he insisted through gritted teeth.

"Why?" she asked, her eyes filled with concern, "we can help each other. I'm asking you to trust me like I've trusted you."

"I told you, I can't do this."

"Can't do what? You said you couldn't risk getting close if I was just going to be dead in two days, and I'm not. I'm trying treatment, I'm trying to stay alive because my head is clearing and I know what I want. And you…you're part of it. Let me help you. I can listen to whatever you want to talk about. We can turn out the lights and sit in the dark and you can talk or we can just _be_."

His jaw stiffened as he remembered the way they'd shared conversations of painful things a few times when they were a couple, and the way they could sometimes speak more frankly in her bed at night in the darkness of her room. She reached for him again, just trying to touch his arm and he withdrew. She looked wounded instantly, "So if I want to touch you I have to be on your bike? I need an acceptable excuse? You liked the way it felt when I touched you, you seemed so relaxed for a minute. So what do I have to do? I have to pretend to want to go somewhere?"

His eyes were rimmed in red, and he looked trapped, "I guess so."

She whispered, her hand coming to his jaw, "It's OK to fall apart a little once in a while, you are under so much pressure, so much has happened. I know how hard it is because I don't like to let go either. Thank you for being there for me when I fell apart. Now let me-"

"I can't sit here while you try to make me feel better."

"It might feel good."

"Of course it would feel good."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I don't want to," he yelled, "because it's going to feel good and then it's going to hurt."

"Maybe it doesn't have to." She stepped closer. Her hand reached out for him again but he pulled away. She said angrily, withdrawing her hand, "I'm tired of this game."

"It's not a game."

"Then what the fuck do you want, House?"

He stepped against her, backing her against the door, his lips meeting hers as soon as he was near enough. Kissing her urgently, he could feel her initial surprise dissolve. He slipped his tongue easily into her mouth because she wasn't even resisting, and he moaned lowly when he felt her kissing back, moving her own mouth against his, her tongue sliding alongside his, her hand surrounding the side of his face. She put a hand on his chest, pushing softly but steadily with the palm of her hand and he backed away, waiting to find horror or rage in her eyes. Her lips were red already, her eyes wide and her chest moving roughly as she breathed. He could see the concern, worry and compassion in the way she looked at him, and he could see her questioning such a drastic jump over their wall.

He was trying to decide if he should move farther away when her body returned eagerly to him. Before he could thoroughly question, she was offering hopeful kisses just as recklessly and freely as he had offered them to her. His arms pulled her in tighter, his hands sliding down to her ass, grabbing handfuls of her to keep her against him. The constant temptation for contact thickened the air between them so thoroughly that it made it hard for them to breathe.

There was nothing delicate, equivocal or patient about the ways that they touched. There was desperation, need and passion that refused to be stifled, emerging because it had to be freed. When her fingers gripped into the back of his neck and he felt her other hand slip under his shirt, his hands rediscovered the shape of her hips. There was a moment of resistance from her, the same resistance that worried her over the last few days that the changes in her had somehow made her less attractive or desirable. She had little time to formulate an argument or follow through with her concerns or place artificial restrictions on him because the way he approached her left little question about the depths of his desire, and she was equally lost in her own feelings of want. She pulled him backwards toward the bedroom, the pair of them falling onto the creaky, old bed that was already whining in response to every move they made.

She felt compelled to feel him against her, dispatching of his shirt as quickly as she could. They were finally against each other, without the pretense of riding a motorcycle and without the present but poorly constructed wall between them. He watched the pieces of her body that moved against his, calling moments stored in his brain and adding new ones to savor later. It was baffling, familiar and strange, excitingly new yet known and, after everything, the purity of their desire remained untainted.

Their togetherness was, in some ways, highlighted by the loneliness of their recent years. Neither had met anyone of consequence, both had found irrelevant people to meet physical needs at some point since their breakup, but neither had experienced any sort of intimacy in the last year. House was in prison and Cuddy was either infirmed or recovering, so everything about every single touch was filled with the nervously giddy anticipation of a long awaited encounter.

Both still knew exactly how to touch the other, remembered exactly what would make their partner pant or sigh, moan or shiver. There wasn't even time for sessions of teasing or lengthy foreplay. When her fingers wrapped around his already straining cock, he groaned roughly while trying to slow down his own eagerness. There was licking and nipping, hands pleasantly manipulating as bodies wriggled and pressed against each other in desperate attempts to become closer. They both seemed so easily aroused by each other, even after their past and life's physical tolls, their bodies wanted each other as badly as their minds did.

His thumb pressed and slid against her clit, already eager to make her come, wanting to re-experience the feeling of bringing her to the point where her body surrendered to the way he made her feel. She pulled him closer, not wanting to allow any postponement, wrapping her arms and legs around him and purring requests into his ear. Being inside of her again felt as close to happiness as he could remember feeling. Their pace slowed for a moment as he felt her sex quivering with anticipation and stimulation, and they froze to relish one of the rare moments that was satisfying in lives filled with unpleasantness.

They started moving together like they'd never stopped, like there hadn't been fears of death, moments of settling debris and the pain of loss keeping them apart. When the rickety, metal-framed bed beneath them shifted and creaked, they shared a momentary smirk, one that was as much about the reminders of youthful encounters on shoddy furniture as it was about the delight that their togetherness provoked.

The momentary pause where relieved smiles were exchanged was devoured by their natural instincts for each other. They met at the place where raw fucking, fucking filled with need, loneliness and even the remnants of anger smashed into the tender, affectionate lovemaking of nearly lifelong companions who couldn't in good conscious deny the feelings beneath the actions. They clung to each other, marking skin with teeth and nails and the desperate grips of fingers digging into flesh in the hopes of never letting go.

They panted against each other after they built to a mutual frenzy that prompted the types of orgasms that left them tired, mindless and shaky, but thoroughly sated. "I actually forgot that felt like that," she chuckled, her fingers running up and down his spine. "I missed you."

He didn't answer so she thought he was asleep. One of her hands covered the back of his head, holding him against her chest while the fingers of her other hand continued to trace his spine. She was starting to drift to sleep with half of his body still resting heavily over her, something that felt enjoyably possessive, and then he mumbled, "It seems like you might be stuck with me."

"Seems like it," she answered.

Their bodies still tightly entwined, they slept for a while.

They woke after a couple of hours, washing each other with aroused reverence while they huddled under the hot water of the outdoor shower as the cold night air threatened to encroach on the heat between them. They spent hours reacquainting themselves with each other's bodies, reminding each other of all of the reasons why sex together was the best of either of their lives, finding a brief escape from the cruelties of reality. They had time to build moments with teases while whispering the words that drove them wild. When they were together like that, the sadness, the death and the pain that hung heavily over them could be ignored. In the quiet seconds in between, there were glimmers of comfort for their aching selves. Between them there was something that refused to die, no matter how desperately they had tried to kill it.


	8. Imbalance

_A/N-I appreciate everyone's patience, this is the last "regular" chapter of the story, but I will add an epilogue since so many of you wanted to see something a little beyond the current scope of this fic. Since I just decided to add it, it isn't actually written yet. I have another project that must be finished on a deadline, so I need some time. The epilogue will be done within the next few weeks, maybe sooner, depending on a number of factors beyond my control. Thanks so much to all of you who've read this re-write of some of the themes from 'Apollo.' Hopefully it wasn't too repetitious. _

_Thanks also for all of the feedback since last chapter: jkarr, IHeartHouseCuddy, HuddyLoveLover, OldSFfan, lenasti16, Suzieqlondon, precioussoulandsweetcheeksiin1, BabalooBlue, freeasabird14, KiwiClare, vicpei1, LapizSilkwood, JLCH, ikissedtheLaurie, housebound, chebelle, Boo's House, PAULA, byte size, CaptainK8, MrsBock, Abby, grouchysnarky, linda12344, Huddy4Ever, HuddyGirl, Alex, Fox66, Jane Q. Doe, LoveMyHouse, jaybe61, Guest, BJAllen815, Mon Fogel, bladesmum, Ann, devonfc and somebadhat._

* * *

**-Imbalance-**

Cuddy woke with her arm trapped against skin that was noticeably rougher than her own. She tried to move but her arm was tightly held in place. "Don't move," House mumbled, "you're plugged in. I was drugging you in your sleep."

Her eyes opened while she looked around the plain cabin bedroom. Stretching a bit, she realized she was far too comfortable and too tired to fight his grip until she saw him rubbing his thigh. "Want me to move?" she asked lazily.

"Nope. I'd hate to get your lazy ass up before three."

She laughed for a moment and then tried to sit up abruptly, "Is it that late?"

"Do you have a meeting? Who cares how late it is, we're here, waiting for Chase to call."

He felt her body stiffen as she remembered.

"Which part of this is making you tense up?" he asked. "Is it the fact that we're naked in the same bed, years after I was supposed to be dead, or is it the whole waiting to see if you have cancer thing?"

She didn't answer at first, tightening her arm around him a little, a tiny demonstration that she still wanted him where he was. Feeling his fingers following the cap of her shoulder, some of her former relaxation returned. "What did I say when I was under sedation for my biopsy? Did I say something or were you just trying to make me think I did?"

"I planted a few suggestions, so any impulses that you may have to wear tighter blouses and shorter skirts, or any new sexual addictions you may feel compelled indulge in, might be my fault."

"God, what did I say?" she groaned. "Or maybe I should be more concerned about what you said."

"I asked you if you were ready to die," he answered with unexpected honesty.

"I told you-"

"I know what you _told me_ when you were awake and saying what you felt had to be said. I wanted to know if what you said was what you meant."

"How did I answer you?"

"You said you didn't want to leave. That it felt like someone was ripping your life away from you…again."

Considering his statement thoroughly, she finally asked, "What if I would have said I was miserable and I just wanted it to be over?"

"Then we wouldn't be here, not like this anyway."

She sat up completely, pulling the blanket around her body, "What do you want? If you had to answer the question right now, if you had to make a decision today, what would it be?"

"I'd settle down with a twenty-nine year-old former model who's tired of the spotlight. We'd buy an alpaca farm and sew really soft socks out of their wool. Is that what they call alpaca fur or hair or…I guess I need to do some research before becoming an alpaca farmer. Or maybe I should just make sure my former model has a background in agriculture," he said as he put far too much thought into the matter.

"How magical," Cuddy answered testily.

"Or maybe I'll find a forty-six year-old former administrator with an amazing body and control issues." House stared at the ceiling, consumed by thoughts of a ridiculous scenario. "What do you know about alpacas?"

She tilted her head disapprovingly and waited.

"Fine," he continued, jerking the blanket away from her, "if I had to make a decision right now, I'd want more of you naked, so we'll start there."

She quickly gathered the other end of the blanket, "I'm serious."

"So am I."

"Break time this morning," she said while she held onto the blanket more tightly.

"No problem. It's afternoon."

"Fine, you're right, it is afternoon, but still break time. So answer the question."

House bounced his head into the pillow a few times and he answered cautiously, "I want a place to live. I want…the things that don't suck to exceed the things that suck."

"What about finding a piano or…practicing medicine again?"

"Those things would be in the 'things that do not suck' category."

"What about…me?"

"You're also in the things that do _not_ suck category," he started, a devilish smirk crossing his face, "things that suck…but don't suck. There's a special category for you, but overall it's on the favorable side of the balance."

"Does that mean you want us to remain in contact, medical outcomes aside?"

With a suspicious stare, he studied her, considering a response. "What is on _your_ to-do list if you're OK?"

"I haven't really-" she began before they were interrupted by her cell phone's annoyingly tranquil ringtone. "Is it Chase?" she asked nervously.

House took the call, allowing her to hear only his undecipherable responses and a promise to bring her to the hospital in the early hours of the following morning. He didn't waste time or make her wait for an answer when he hung up, saying immediately, "I usually leave patient contact to my fellows, especially in cases of bad news, but -"

Cuddy held out her hand to get him to stop speaking and she requested, "Just give me a minute?"

"Cuddy, your results are consistent with autoimmune pancreatitis."

"What?"

"No signs of cancerous cells from the biopsy and your blood work points to autoimmune pancreatitis. Which means that you seem to have an autoimmune disorder. We'll have to manage it. Of course, usually this condition can be easily managed with a few lifestyle changes and some meds."

"I'm not going to die," she stated, needing to hear it out loud and spoken clearly.

"Of course you will. I'm not _that_ good. But, with any luck, your yoga-loving ass will be bossing people around for another thirty years or so."

"You're serious? Why are we going to the hospital?"

"We're going to go to the hospital to do a quick ultrasound so we can make sure the inflammation is responding to your current steroid, and Chase suggested an MRI to have for comparison when we do later scans to monitor your condition."

"I don't believe it."

"You'll have to hang around long enough for me to really rub it in your face. It's sort of the ultimate, 'I told you so,' so I want a chance to cash in."

One corner of her mouth twitched into a smile before she wrapped her arms around his neck, the blanket finally falling away from her body.

"Does this mean you're willing to facilitate my gloating?" he asked, pulling his head back.

She nodded, her face displaying the obvious surprise and joy that she felt, "Sure, yea, gloat away," she answered while her lips met his, mumbling against him, "thank you. Thanks for being a rude, obnoxious ass and pushing me until you got your way."

"I think a couple of my performance evaluations read like that. Or at least they should have."

She laughed, the weight lifted from her shoulders was obvious. Leaning back against the wall, she sat still while thoughts rushed through her mind.

"You look tired," he stated with concern.

"A little."

"As your doctor, I'd suggest not staying up all hours of the night. You need rest."

She rolled her eyes, "You were the reason I was up 'all hours of the night,' if I remember correctly. Are you suggesting that we should have abstained?"

"Never. I meant that we should have had sex during the day." He waited for an appropriately admonishing look from her and then slid back down into bed. Patting the side of his chest, he motioned for her to join him.

"We better get up, we have to continue our Wilson tribute."

"Relax. We have plenty of time," he said as his hand found her waist and tightened.

* * *

An evening spent sitting by a fire outside of their cabin discussing their departed friend and the pleasanter memories of their shared past was a comfortable way to end the hours of their Wilson trip. They avoided the topics of greatest pain without coming to a verbal agreement on the matter. They also avoided discussions of the future, words about where they were headed or exactly what to make of their possibly reborn relationship.

When it was time to go, House gathered only the things they came with, leaving the camping supplies he purchased for the next occupant to find. They took the short, hour-long ride back to her home to rest for a few hours before driving her back to the hospital.

As they left her place, he pointed at the room where he had found her almost a week earlier, "What are you going to do with the death room?"

"The _death room_? It was my office. I guess I'll turn it into one again."

"Are those the only two possibilities: dying or working?"

"For that room, yea," she agreed, "but there are plenty of other rooms."

"I spent a lot of years watching you 'working.' I spent a few really shitty days watching you 'dying.' I'd like to check out the other rooms."

She nodded as she got into her car, "I would too."

* * *

Chase was waiting for them in the parking garage with Eaton by his side. When House and Cuddy approached them, House asked, "Did he give you a spot on the team?"

"Thanks to you," Eaton nodded, "or at least thanks to the fact that I kept your little visit a secret."

When the elevator door dinged and opened, they heard Taub's familiarly nasal voice, "Tell me this is a joke?"

Chase answered, taking the wheelchair Taub brought to them, "Not a joke."

Cuddy looked between them, worried about what Taub's discovery meant until he said, "You're going to take the job? Aren't you? Ultimately I have this feeling that's what drew you back here to this particular hospital."

Nodding at House, Cuddy smiled, "I knew they'd find a spot for you."

"Him?" Taub asked with clear incredulity, "who in the hell would hire House as Dean?"

Her head jerked toward Taub as surprise settled over her, "Dean?"

"Wait, so you…_aren't_ applying?"

"What happened to Foreman?" she inquired.

Chase turned the wheelchair once she was seated and answered, "The board was scheduling a vote…he was on his way out. They gave him a courtesy warning and he submitted his resignation. So there's no need to hide the two of you from him."

"Oh," she responded with her greatest attempt at complete indifference.

"The board mentioned your name, from what Foreman privately told me," Chase offered, "so if you want the job…"

"They mentioned me?" her excitement was showing a bit, "You wouldn't want to work for me again, would you, Dr. Chase?"

Chase pushed her chair out of the elevator when they arrived on the correct floor, "Why not? With someone new there's so much to learn. After being well-trained by an expert in the field, I had years of experience learning to work _around_ you."

Her grin fell short of threatening, "I need to concentrate on getting better…for now."

"And after that?" Taub interjected, "If you take the job, will you be hiring House back? Maybe we'll get front row seats to the free-fall-to-destruction ride…again."

"Give Cuddy a few months to repay me for saving her life before trying to get her to take a _job_," House complained, ignoring Taub, "and maybe she was right about that whole…getting healthy thing too."

"You're a born healer," an amused Eaton added.

Cuddy and House moved through the halls, still strangers in a place that felt more normal than anywhere else. Cuddy had an MRI and then she, House, and Chase went to a procedure room to do an ultrasound.

After the ultrasound, Chase put a hand on Cuddy's shoulder to signal they were done and said, "Congratulations, you are the proud owner of your very own, rare, autoimmune disorder. A much better diagnosis than pancreatic cancer. I'm sure House has already told you, but we'll continue with steroids and keep monitoring your condition, but you should be feeling pretty good in a week or so, and back to normal in the next few months." Chase walked toward the door of the procedure room and said before he left, "You might want to consider reapplying. You have quite a few years left until retirement, a daughter to put through college. It's worth considering."

House walked to the door after Chase left, locking it and returning to Cuddy. Standing behind her, he began to untie her hospital gown.

"I can handle this myself," she suggested, tapping his fingers.

"I can handle you better," House cockily retorted.

"Not much here to see right now."

"Even sick, your hotness is epic."

She reached for the bag that contained her personal belongings, "Oh please, you already got laid."

"And I want to keep getting laid, but I'm not lying in order to get what I want. You've changed a lot over the years, but you're always smokin'."

"You're delusional."

"Aren't men supposed to appreciate women for more than their looks anyway?" he asked while he looked down at her body over her shoulder, his hand swooping to the swell of her breast.

Her mouth opened just a bit while she watched his fingers close around a nipple. "Of course, looks can fade, change…disappear sometimes. I also know how I got your attention originally and how I kept it."

"Your looks may have originally gotten my attention and they _may _have encouraged continued interest, but what _kept _it…what brought me back after everything that happened, had to be _way_ more than looks."

His other hand wrapped around her narrow waist, pulling her body back against his. With stuttered breath, she whispered, "I have no idea how you could want me right now."

"I've always wanted you. That doesn't seem to change. I think you could stand to regain some cushion, but not only am I a diagnostic virtuoso, but I'm amazing in the kitchen. I can help bring your ass back to its former glory."

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, trying to mask how uncomfortable she felt at his easy acceptance of her weakened condition. Her arm slipped behind her, hooking around his neck as she started to give in to the feelings and eventually she wasn't just giving in anymore, she was an active participant. Her hands were on his hips before they moved front, softly tantalizing him through his jeans. She marveled as she felt him grow more aroused under her touch, still startled by the fact that his omnipresent attraction hadn't seemed to fade. With both of her hands behind her, she opened his jeans while his hand went flat against her chest, pressing against her body and moving upward until his fingers curved around her chin and he turned her face toward him. "What are you doing?" he asked, feigning shock at her actions before placing two soft kisses against her lower lip.

"Well…we agreed I should explore options in life that aren't dying or working. What better time to start than now?"

He groaned while she started devoting more attention to his body. His hands moved to her sex, one hand pressing against her and the fingers of the other hand slowly working inside her. "You're much more fun as a reckless 'live life to the fullest' patient than you were when you worked here."

She quickly awoke from the fog of foreplay and asked nervously, "Reckless? Did you lock the door?"

"What else do you think I was doing over there?"

Completely moving her body away from him, she asked with irritation, "Did you lock it or not?"

"Yes," he hissed, pulling her back toward the edge of the exam table until she was standing in the tiny space between his body and the cold surface of the side of the table, "would you relax? I just meant…here, in the hospital, so near people who worked for you…who might work for you again…"

He waited to see if she was able to sink back into the moment they had found a few seconds earlier or if her irritation had ruined the encounter for both of them, but she pressed back against him, and they seemed to easily return to their sexual haze. Leaning her over the exam table in a room that had once been the site of more clinical and unexciting encounters between them, he held onto one of her hips and guided himself into her body.

She was gasping loudly, trying not to make too much noise but admittedly as turned on by their location as anything else. There was a gentleness hidden even in the roughest of moments: noticeable even as he grabbed a handful of her hair so she'd turn her head and expose her still graceful neck, evident even as excitement built and he let go of his restraint to chase pleasure, and obvious even as she dug her nails into his hips while her body clenched down on him.

Their tenderness was most obvious, perhaps, when he held her in the moments after the stolen encounter, while he sighed gratefully and said, "I wish I could tell you I was starting to feel something for you again but…," he could see her defenses beginning to rise instantly, a reaction that told him so much about how she felt, and then he added, "…but I can't _start _having feelings if I never _stopped_ having them."

She turned more fully toward him, whispering without a speck of vitriol, "Me too…, you colossal ass."

They righted themselves quickly as they heard someone trying the handle on the locked door. Without wasting time, they got dressed, Cuddy clearly tired from the day's adventures as well as the emotional toll. When they walked into the hall, Chase, Taub and Eaton were waiting with expressions that were unfazed, awkward and amused, respectively. Chase insisted Cuddy sit in the wheelchair and they began the walk to leave the hospital.

"The board will meet later this month to discuss replacements for Foreman," Chase said, his voice dangling the suggestion in front of them, "so if you're interested, I'd let them know before the next meeting."

"I do remember how all of this works," Cuddy answered.

"Oh," Chase announced more loudly, digging into his pants' pocket and turning to House, "this is yours. You owe me $900."

House stared at the key in Chase's hand, scoffing, "For what?"

"Storage unit."

"What storage unit?" the older doctor asked hopefully, taking the key that shined in front of him.

"The one I put a few of your things in after your…_death. _Or more like after I realized you were alive_._ I forgot the $300 in moving expenses, which you also owe me for, and I'm sure you won't mind paying because you appreciate what I did and what I went through to get your things."

"What's in the storage unit that's worth over a grand to me?" House asked as they continued down the hall.

"It looked like some things were gone before I arrived, electronics, things like that. I found a few things I thought were your father's…some little personal belongings…guitars…oh…and…what was the other thing?" Chase asked, looking around as he searched for answers before he smiled at his former mentor, "your piano."

"Indoor storage? Climate controlled?"

"No!" Chase answered, "You're lucky I saved your junk at all."

"The temperature changes alone…," House complained, "I can't believe you didn't spring for climate controlled."

"You're an unappreciative bastard," Chase said with unaffected calm, standing in front of House, unmoving.

"I'm good for the rest," House said as he dug in his pocket for a wad of cash that was far less than the requested amount and shoved the money into his old fellow's hand. Once House and Cuddy were on the elevator, she leaned forward and hit the button for their floor before Chase stepped between the closing doors. House turned to Chase and observed with an appreciative smirk, "I knew there was a reason you were Daddy's favorite."

Chase faced forward, trying to maintain a stern expression before a subtle smile emerged on his face and he nodded, "You're welcome."

Once House and Cuddy were driving away, he commented, "There are tons of words people have used to describe one or both of us: crazy, cold, condescending, bossy, childish, rude, controlling, sociopathic, sexy, brilliant, amazing…the list goes on and on. But one thing we aren't…at least to this hospital or the people in it…is irrelevant. We still matter here, as more than infamous ghosts that wander the halls."

A few hours later, after checking the storage unit to make sure his piano was still safely inside, they were back at her home in New York.

The following morning, Rachel and Arlene returned to find the good news they had only dreamed could be possible. Rachel hugged Cuddy with strength that seemed to come from the depths of her heart. Moments after the truth of Cuddy's condition was explained to the overjoyed family members, the rumble of House's motorcycle could be heard from outside.

Cuddy ran out as quickly as she could. Her body still weak, she was winded by the time she made it out to his bike to stop him from leaving.

He turned off the motor and before she even caught her breath she was saying, "Don't you dare leave. Not now. I need you here with me. I need someone to give my life that…thing, that irritation and friction, that challenge that it seems only you can provide. I want someone who makes me feel real, and who seems to feel real around me. And seriously, the sex? I am not ready to give up the sex. Life is shitty and dismal and disappointing, it's like the _death room_, like we're all just sitting somewhere, waiting to die. It took a lot, but I realize I want exactly what you want: I want the parts of life that don't suck to outnumber the parts of life that do. And our relationship is sorta strange, but we can be good together. We _are _good together. I got my life back, so I want to really _live _it. Thank you for giving that back to me, but it won't mean nearly as much if you aren't around. Maybe I want you to have plenty of time to gloat about saving my life. Maybe Rachel and I still need you around to inject some fun into things. Maybe Mom still wants to live her own life where she can stop by and annoy us without feeling like she has to stay here. I'm really good at creating stability and order and structure…and that is great sometimes, but it needs to be tempered. Without someone to shake it up, to try to ruin the stability I create, life is too balanced. It's boring."

House stared noncommittally, as he had the entire time that she spoke. He turned away, looking toward the road.

"Please, say something," Cuddy encouraged, "if you don't want to be here, just tell me that. If you _want_ to leave, then go with my heartfelt appreciation and the knowledge that…this world still has people in it that truly care about you, no matter what has happened. Your life doesn't have to be lonely unless you want it to be."

He finally spoke, somberly, "You do need instability. And fun. And me. But what you need a lot more than that…is food. Remember my goal? The full restoration of your ass to its previous ginormousity? I was going to the store while you and Cuddy-the-elder and Cuddy-the-tinier catch up. I thought that would give you some time to gush about me behind my back."

She studied the way his eyes seemed so alive in front of her, but then her doubt prompted questions, "You're going to carry groceries on your bike? Enough for all of us without your duffle bag? Why not ask to take the car?"

"I was going to take the car. I was not, however, going to _ask _to take the car," he said as he held up her keys.

"So why are you on the bike?"

"I'm going to move it behind the garage. I can't get your car out since your mother parked the granny-boat here. So I'm moving my bike and taking your car," he said while he turned the bike on and moved it while she watched.

When he came back over, she was leaning against her car and he said, "Go talk to your kid, have fun. I'll be back in an hour." He leaned down, kissing the corner of her mouth quickly before adding, "You don't have to be lonely or bored either. We both deserve a life where the suckage no longer dwarfs the non-suckage."

"So we're gonna…do what?" she asked.

"We're gonna hang out for a while and try not being entirely lonely and miserable, maybe even have some fun. We'll figure out the details as we go because neither of us is exactly full of direction right now since we're both sort of…lucky to even be here. We can start all of that as soon as I get back from the store."

"Yea," she answered, smiling fondly, "hurry back."


	9. Epilogue-- The Rules of Heirloomery

_A/N-Here's the epilogue. Thank you to all of you who read the story and to those who commented on the last chapter: IHeartHouseCuddy, jkarr, BabalooBlue, OldSFfan, JLCH, linda12344, ikissedtheLaurie, LapizSilkwood, Huddy4Ever, Guest, Suzieqlondon, KiwiClare, bladesmom, MrsBock, lenasti16, BakerstreetBlues, Abby, CaptainK8, HuddyGirl, IWuvHouse, Alex, freeasabird14, housebound, LoveMyHouse, Boo's House, chebelle, grouchysnarky, Jane Q. Doe, Huddylovelover, Maya295 and Mon Fogel. _

_I really appreciated all of your comments during the course of the story and your patience as well. _

**-The Rules of Heirloomery-**

_-One year after House's release from prison-_

When they picked up Rachel at the playground, Cuddy couldn't help but notice that several children were staring at House with wide-eyed interest. She wondered as she approached if Rachel had been bragging about House's genius or the lives he had saved or some other interesting little fact about the man. Rachel hurriedly grabbed her things and joined them, ready for a few days away.

The three were all in the car, and Rachel said from the back, "It worked! Aiden is leaving me alone."

"Finally. That counselor I spoke to assured me they'd take care of this," Cuddy exclaimed with relief, "was it the peer group or the counselor that finally got through to that bully?"

"Nah. He didn't care about that stuff."

"What finally got through his head?"

"House."

"What did House do?" Cuddy asked nervously, her eyes finding her child in the rear-view mirror.

"I didn't really _do_ anything," House interrupted, "so Rachel, how did that Math test go?"

"What Math test?" the girl asked.

"History?" he asked hopefully.

"I don't have any tests at summer camp."

"House was trying to change the subject, Rach," Cuddy supplied. "What happened that finally got through to Aiden?"

"I told him to leave me alone because my dad was the leader of a biker gang and was in prison…_twice_," Rachel announced proudly.

"You threatened him?" Cuddy asked.

"No. I just sort of told him about House and then Aiden left me alone."

Silence fell on the car as Cuddy continued to drive.

Rachel, with the greatest admiration, added, "House…you're the best. Thanks."

"Sure, kid," he answered, avoiding the scowl he expected Cuddy had prepared for him.

* * *

When he suggested going back to the cabin, it seemed only fitting. Cuddy sat and watched her family from the porch. There they were, House and Rachel. House occupied a strange role between friend and father to the little girl. There were a few uncertain weeks between them at the beginning, but after several months, the admiration between them became irrepressible.

Cuddy was relieved when Rachel happily volunteered to fish with House. The two of them, the oldest and youngest, starkly contrasted in nearly every physical way, made a fascinating pair. His tall, lean, rough form sat next to the girl's diminutive, energetic, graceful body as their long-neglected fishing lines disappeared into the water. He handed her an ice cream sandwich, which the girl fastidiously opened to make sure that no paper was left behind that she'd have to pull out of her mouth covered in soggy chocolate cookie and melted ice cream. Just as she was ready to eat, he took it from her hand and finished it off in a few bites. Cuddy watched with both amusement and sadness, acknowledging just how _much_ he still missed Wilson. The little girl stood up, her hands on her hips while she griped at him for stealing her food. She marched around him to get the second treat from the bag, complaining the entire time.

When Rachel sat back down next to him, holding on tightly to her snack, she was a little closer than she had been a few minutes earlier. He reached out, poking the girl's side with his elbow. She returned the gesture, the two of them going back and forth a few times, like a hug they could share without having to make their affection known because on the surface it appeared confrontational.

Cuddy strolled to the edge of the water, where she heard House retelling some of the greatest pranks he ever played on Wilson.

At the very first moment they were alone after Rachel went to bed, House argued, "I didn't tell her to call me her dad."

"Hunh?" Cuddy countered, shaking her head.

"When I told her how to handle that bully…I didn't tell her to say that I was her dad. I've never said that. I didn't suggest it or offer…that was all her."

"You think I'm upset about _that_?"

"It's fine, I get it. You've taken care of her for years…she's your kid. No one's taking that from you."

"I'm not upset about _that_. I wasn't even for a second. You cook for her, tell her stories, help with homework. You've been there almost every night before bed and every morning at breakfast since you moved in with us. No matter what the papers say…you're her de facto dad. What should she have called you, '_the guy who's like one of my parents, but I don't have the paperwork to back it up, so I can't actually call him my dad_'? That's a little wordy to work into an argument. If actions matter…you act like one of her parents. I would think that would make perfect sense to you."

"Like you weren't upset about that."

"I was _not_ upset about that. I was upset that you were teaching her that gangs and prison are cool, and that intimidation is the way to stand up to a bully. Remember how I told you when we sat in Wilson's old office that we were no longer remembered for all of the amazing things that we did…we were remembered by the worst of our moments? You've done a lot things, amazing things, I don't want that to be what you're known for."

"I'm not worried about what I'm known for. She was getting picked on every day. I sat there while they tried talking and outreach, while they tried to do things the 'right way.' I gave them a chance, exactly like they asked us to, but it didn't work. It was either that or keep her home from camp because I'm not going to drive her there so some older, bigger bully can jerk her around. I won't do it. I saw that look in your eye. It took every bit of your self-control not to go and destroy him yourself."

After sitting in thought for a few moments, she said, "You know, you very rarely talk about prison."

"Weird. I should be recounting my days there…doing a 'time of my life' retrospective."

"But you told Rachel to use that. You brought up the subject."

"What else was I supposed to do, Cuddy? Rachel fights back, and she gets suspended. You want me to go beat up a ten year-old? I hate to tell you…given the kind of shape I'm in…the ten year-old might take me."

"You know I didn't mean that."

"That would _really_ help Rachel…her mother's crippled old man threatening a minor. Even if I just tried to talk to him, there's a good chance I'd go back to jail."

"I'm trying to tell you that I know you don't brag about prison. You hated your time there. But yet…you didn't care if she used it to defend herself. So what I thought was you pulling some kind of macho prison bullshit…was actually you talking about something you don't even like to think about, so she wouldn't get picked on."

House spun the hot glass globe around a lantern, watching the flame at the center, but remained silent.

"She is so lucky to have you," Cuddy finally said. "As messed up as it is…it worked. I'm glad he's leaving her alone. So thank you."

He nodded, answering gruffly, "Prison was finally good for something."

"Seriously though? A biker gang?" she asked, grinning.

House nodded, "Wilson and I…nearly dead and disabled, the gang inspiring fear in the hearts of elementary school children years after we disbanded."

* * *

They spent the rest of the weekend doing some of the things House remembered Wilson talking about years earlier. This trip wasn't overshadowed by worries of Cuddy's health or the anger between them. Having a kid present who was always ready for fun changed the entire atmosphere, and House seemed like he was finally having the tribute he'd imagined.

Their last night there, House disappeared for a few hours after saying he needed a walk. Cuddy worried, although she tried not to let it show; he needed time to mourn. Relief coursed through her body when he returned and climbed into bed with her. He pulled her arm around him and placed her hand on his head. Her fingers worked comfortingly against him. There was something about him, seeking such basic reassurance in the form of a nurturing touch, that both highlighted the pain that he felt and made her realize how much he trusted her. When she didn't freeze up or ask any questions, she felt him settle against her as his breathing slowed, and he calmly slipped into sleep. He didn't seem drunk or high, just wounded. She ached on his behalf, felt the loss in him seep through her skin while she tried to find sleep as well.

It was in those early hours that the evidence of what had changed became clear to her. She trusted enough not to doubt or push for answers that he couldn't bear to give yet, and in his moment of despair he trusted enough to turn to her, to return to her side and seek that tiny modicum of comfort even in the worst moments.

In the morning when they woke, they bickered over whether or not they needed to clean the cabin before they left. The normalcy of it all felt great.

* * *

"Happy You're-Not-Dead-iversary!" House announced when Cuddy walked through the door of their home after work the next Tuesday. He was on the sofa, arms sprawled across the back, with a gift-wrapped shirt box on his lap.

"Happy what?" she inquired, walking cautiously over to him and dropping her purse on the coffee table.

"You really don't know what a '_You're-Not-Dead-iversary'_ is? I kind of thought it was self-explanatory."

"Kind of macabre."

"It would only be _macabre_ if it was a '_Glad-You're-Dead-iversary.'_ "

"We couldn't just celebrate a normal anniversary?"

"We've never made it to a normal anniversary before. I don't know if we know how to do that."

Smiling somberly, she stood in front of him, arms folded, "I guess we haven't, until now."

"I don't even know which date we'd pick for a normal anniversary. I figured…why not celebrate this because, really, this is still the greatest proof of my near perfection. Say it for me…"

"Again?"

"Yes. Say it. You said you would say it whenever I want."

"Fine, you were right."

"I _was_ right. If not for me, your lusciously re-plumped girls would be lost to the world forever."

"You want me to share them with the world?"

"Preferably clothed and at a distance, but yes. I'm not _that_ selfish."

"I feel so treasured."

"The second reason to choose today is because this is the day we realized you were going to keep living, and…you decided to keep me around in that life…seemed worth remembering."

Her head tilted and eyes softened, and she shook her head, "Thank you."

"And I chose not only to _acknowledge_ today, but I also got you a present, _and _I wrapped it…or had someone wrap it. It's wrapped. Technically you could probably say it's our anniversary too, but who wants a plain, old, boring anniversary when they can have a 'You're-Not-Dead-iversary' instead?"

She moved next to him on the sofa, reaching a soft hand to the side of his face and bringing him closer for a kiss. He pulled back after a second and added, "Before you get all distracted by my hotness…well, by my hotness and my extremely romantic gesture, well…before you get distracted by my hotness, my gesture and your unquenchable desire for-"

"Let's sum up…before I'm distracted by the total package that is you…"

"The total _awesome_ package that is me."

"Yes," she nodded, smirking, "of course."

"Open your present."

She looked down in his lap, "Lingerie? Sex toys?"

"Damn. I wish I would have thought of that. Now _that_ would have been romantic. I guess I'm just not that good at this."

Rolling her eyes, a smile still in place, she opened the package. There was a medical journal with a bookmark holding a place. When she opened the journal to the correct spot, she practically gaped, "You wrote an article?"

He nodded.

"All of those years, I had to beg and barter to get you to submit _anything_," she continued.

"So you found that nagging me doesn't produce the intended results…what a useful thing to learn! Anyway, I needed something inspirational enough to write about."

"Autoimmune Pancreatitis was interesting enough?"

"It's my new favorite autoimmune disorder."

"I can't believe this."

"I know…you'll never recover from the disappointment that there wasn't a see-through nightie or a vibrator, but hopefully this is not too much of a letdown."

"I love it," she marveled as she began to read.

"You can read it later…you already know how it ends."

She continued reading and he coughed obnoxiously, taking the box and pulling back a piece of paper at the bottom to reveal a smaller, flat box. She looked up at him, "What's that?"

"It's _your_ present, I'm not going to do all of the work for you, you have to open it all by yourself."

She picked it up, opening it slowly to reveal a necklace and looking more stunned than happy, "This is for me?"

"No, it's for me, I wanted you to see it before I put it on."

"You…got me jewelry," she asked as she picked it up, realizing that the piece was very old, "it's beautiful. Where did you get this? Your mother's?"

"Grandmother's. I asked Bell for it before he sold Mom's place."

"I love it," she interrupted, surprised that still, after all of their years of knowing each other, things that were heartfelt seemed to make him uncomfortable, as if he was prepared for rejection. "I can't believe you're giving me a family heirloom."

"That's a nice way to say 'hand-me-down' jewelry," he explained.

"More meaningful than something you could buy. Thank you."

"If you choose to wear it, it also means that you aren't allowed to dump me any time soon. I think that is part of the rules of family heirloomery. More binding than marriage, so you've been warned."

"Is that a fact?"

"Yup. Very well-known fact."

He absently spun the ring on his finger with his thumb, and she wondered if he even realized he was doing it. She pulled her hair up, "Help me put it on?"

Reaching around her, his nimble fingers drew the chain around her neck and clasped it. When she faced him, she saw a look in his eyes that was nervously hopeful, but always somewhat aware of the mercurial nature of good times.

"Will you be upset if I only got you lingerie to celebrate a night on our own? Or since we're celebrating unconventional anniversaries, it could be for the one year 'Happy You're-Out-Of-Jail-iversary' from last week."

"Depends, is it for me to wear or for you?"

"Me."

"In that case, it's the perfect gift. Gifting is about knowing the receiver of that gift."

Cuddy stood, reaching a hand out to him. He looked up questioningly and she explained, "Since we have all of this time to ourselves, we should have sex before dinner. A nice prelude to sex after dinner."

His uncertain look evaporated into a leer, "Your indecency disturbs my polite disposition."

"You want sex now or not?"

"Always, but you'll have to reason with my disposition first." She took off her work jacket and tossed it on the sofa, put her hands on her hips and stood there expectantly. After a few seconds, House conceded, "Well, it appears my disposition is on board."

"Good. Then quit messing around and come get your present," she ordered as she walked down the hall.

As he followed her, he shouted, "You always know the perfect ways to say 'I love you.'"

**-The End-**


End file.
